


Crystal

by seterasilence



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Practical Magic Fusion, Angst, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, FOR A HOT SEC THO I PROMISE, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Magic, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens), Minor Character Death, Practical magic - Freeform, Recreational Drug Use, Temporary Character Death, Witches, not this fic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23379643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seterasilence/pseuds/seterasilence
Summary: For more than 200 years, the Crowley women have been cursed that anyone who dare fall in love with them will perish. Unfortunately, the Fell witches simply have bad luck. For Aziraphale Fell and Antonia Crowley, falling in love is the trickiest spell of all. The Good Omens Practical Magic AU mashup that no one asked for posts once a week.There’s a little witch in all of us.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 130





	1. The Curse

“A curse on any man who dared love a Crowley woman,” Aunt Agnes said, grimly.

_ “Anyone _ who dare love a Crowley woman will live briefly in the euphoria of her love until meeting an untimely death,” Aunt Tracy corrected, pushing a lock of dyed permed hair off her forehead. Her tickle-me-pink painted lips pursed tightly together. “Or, something like that. I could never remember. Even so, there shouldn’t have been a reason it got  _ both _ of them. Aziraphale, please. Be careful, dear.”

“What’s in there?” Aziraphale asked, scrambling up on one of the tall kitchen chairs, her small hands flat on the rough-cut butcher’s block taking up half the table, for once clean of thyme and cut marjoram. Just beyond it, a tan drawstring bag thrashed to the side, a low-key hiss uttering from the insides. 

Aunt Agnes sighed, her long dark hair catching over one shoulder as she paged through her grimoire. Rain thundered against the old windows, leaving rivulets cascading like rivers down the glass. “The daughter of a family friend. You never met her, Aziraphale, but she was quite close with your belated mother.”

Aziraphale’s lips copied Aunt Tracy’s, the rare mention of her mother like added spice to the plain broth of her simple heart: a burn close to pain, but pleasant nonetheless.

“It’s just like Maria to teach Antonia how to transform into something, but not how to transform out of it,” Aunt Agnes continued, her voice sharp. “Foolish girl. She should’ve listened to our advice.”

“At least her daughter escaped,” Aunt Tracy said, “that’s all that matters. What she must have seen…”

“Escaped what?” Aziraphale asked, cupping her hand out to the thrashing bag as if to let a dog scent her. The bag stilled for a moment and the hissing began in earnest.

“Never you mind, dearie,” Tracy said and addressed Agnes. “I’m grateful we managed to convince that reptile recovery agent to hand her over instead of taking her to the pound.”

“Snakes don’t go to pounds,” Agnes snarled, flipping through her grimoire at a faster pace. “She’d go to an aquarium.”

“Can I transform into a snake?” Aziraphale asked, pushing her platinum-blonde braid over her shoulder. The electric lights above flickered from the storm and Tracy uttered a small sound of inconvenience, leaned forward to breathe on the wicks of candles surrounding the table to light them with magic.

“Don’t even think about it, child,” Agnes said so harshly that Aziraphale lowered her head so she wouldn’t have to meet Aunt Agnes’ eyes. The sound of pages sliding against each other filled the air and Aziraphale longed to read Aunt Agnes’ grimoire. The glimpses of black belladonna drawings and poems dedicated to Hecate never ceased to fill her with curiosity, one that she never quenched. But Aziraphale was a good girl, never a toe out of place, never the one to question her elders.

“Not until you’re older,” Aunt Tracy said, her fingers picking gently at the knot on the bag’s drawstring, and addressed the bag. “Now, Antonia, we’re going to let you out. I know this has been traumatic, but we didn’t know what to do and you have a tendency to bite. Now, if you could sit still while we undo this little mix-up, you’ll be right as rain.”

Aunt Tracy opened the bag fully as Aunt Agnes began to chant and the snake struck, fangs digging into the web between Tracy’s thumb and finger. Tracy yelled and yanked back, hitting the candles and sending them to the floor, igniting the old rug in licks of flame. Aziraphale screamed as the black snake writhed to the floor, slithering toward the screen door that needed only a good breeze to open. 

“Grab her, Aziraphale, grab her!” Tracy bellowed as Agnes hurtled a pitcher of water on the flames, her grimoire tucked tightly under her arm. “Agnes, that’s bloody gin!”

“Hecate, help us,” Agnes said, wrenching a can from the greenhouse and watering the flames like she would her lavender.

Aziraphale launched off her chair, dodging a burst of fire, as she lunged for the ripple of snake. The cool slick of scales slid out of her hands. She lunged again, but the snake kept flickering out of her grip like sand. The snake slammed into the screen door and shot out into the open. Aziraphale followed with a cry of panic, losing sight as the black reptile blended in with the rich rows of herbs in the garden and the crash of ocean just beyond the whitewashed shiplap New England house on the cliffside. Rain soaked her. Mud coated her bare feet up to her shins as she ran farther from the house and closer to the empty rose trellis and bushes just beyond the white picket fence. Falling to her knees, she began to search, feeling the throb of failure take up in her chest at the thought of returning empty-handed. 

A warning hiss came out of nowhere to her left, and Aziraphale froze, barely identifying the shine of coils glimmering with raindrops poorly concealed underneath a half-bloomed thicket. The moonlight caught the slit golden eyes as the snake drew back, poised to strike. 

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale said, slowly easing onto her haunches and holding out her hands. “I won’t hurt you.” She unzipped her tan hoodie spotted with periwinkle flowers, and held it over her head, shifting it forward so it covered them both—snake and human—sheltering them from the rain. The snake curled up into a tighter ball. “We won’t hurt you,” Aziraphale continued, furiously flipping through every reptile fact she knew from school. “Neither will the aunts. We could get out of the rain, maybe? Play upstairs even. I don’t have many friends. I like to color—we could share my coloring book! Have a sleepover! Aunt Tracy will even let us have cocoa before bed and brownies for breakfast.”

The snake stilled, the flat head lifting just enough for Aziraphale to make out the strike of crimson running from neck to belly. The air shimmered and the scales peeled back into peach skin, a slender profile emerging from the broad diamond-shaped head of the serpent. A tangle of bright red hair waved to the girl’s shoulders, but the snake eyes remained the same. The girl opened her mouth as if to speak and a quiet gasping sob emerged, instead.

“Come here,” Aziraphale said, an ache drowning her lungs, the same she felt when she saw her playmates delighting in crushing ants, or when she saw ducks swaying limply from a line during hunting season, or when she saw a squirrel get crunched by a car. 

The girl folded into Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale placed her hoodie over the girl’s shoulders—briefly fingering the rips in the girl’s glitter shirt as if something with claws had swiped at her. More wide tears had destroyed her jeans, the material fraying at the thighs. Deep wounds coated her face. Aziraphale tightened her hug. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“I’m Antonia,” the girl whispered back, her whole body trembling.

“Oh, darlings.”

Aziraphale looked up to see Aunt Tracy kneeling down beside them, a flashlight illuminating them both. Antonia buried her face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I found her,” Aziraphale said, proudly. “Is she staying with us? She can share my room.”

“Aren’t you a sweet thing,” Aunt Tracy whispered, sounding thick with tears. “Come inside, dears. Let’s get you both warm.” She smoothed down Antonia’s hair, and Antonia pressed harder into Aziraphale, as if Aziraphale would defend her, protect her.


	2. The Witches of Coupeville

“How dare they!” Antonia screamed, her fists clenched at her sides, her voice bordering on hysterical. “Who do they think they are? Those…those _fuckers!”_

“Antonia…wait,” Aziraphale pleaded, struggling to sling both of their backpacks over her shoulder as she hurried to catch up to the enraged eleven-year-old stomping down the streets of old-town Coupeville, Massachusetts, where you had to take a ferry to get anywhere, where the historic remnants of sailors and widows was the aesthetic for everything.

Aziraphale loved it—the winding nautical knots, the sailboats, the long stretches of sea surrounding her on all sides. Antonia, though, felt like the island was a prison and forsook the creams and tans and stripes of an island existence for one with sequins and pink fuzzy crop tops and shimmery black leggings. Right now, the black angel wings strapped to her shoulders trembled with her rage—and Hecate, how that fashion choice had set the bullies to grinning, calling her fallen, calling her demon-girl, sending Antonia into a fury fit for…well, furies.

“Calling me _Crawly_ ,” she shouted at the afternoon sky. “As if I’m some kind of animal. Asking me if I should be on my belly, on my _knees._ My eyes—Aziraphale, they’re a _condition._ ”

“I know,” Aziraphale said quietly as Antonia Crowley shoved her heart-shaped sunglasses up her sharp nose. The black slits had never left after Antonia transformed back to human. For weeks, Aunt Agnes peered between those golden orbs and her encyclopedia of spells, finally shrugging with the advice of, “Well, that’s what happens when you stay too long in a foreign form. Make it a lesson, mind you. Magic isn’t something you look down your nose at.”

“I just want to be called by my last name,” Antonia snarled. “Is that so hard? But everyone is this dumb-fuck town has to make it a joke, they make everything a joke—and _you,_ you stopped me.”

It was hard, actually. Even Aziraphale hadn’t made the leap to calling her Crowley. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she ever could. Aziraphale swallowed hard, remembering the way Antonia’s finger had pointed straight as an arrow at the gaggle of laughing classmates, the way Antonia had screeched in that high-pitched outraged way of hers, “I hope you all get…chicken pox!”

And how Aziraphale had wrenched that finger down, knowing the curse had exploded from Antonia, anyway. Aziraphale had never been able to keep up with Antonia, never anticipate what her best friend might do next. “Antonia, no!” she’d said, low and fierce. “Stop it!” The betrayal on Antonia’s face had cut Aziraphale to mulch, and she wheedled for forgiveness, following the reed-slim figure as she stormed out of the school. Aziraphale was always following.

Antonia spun around to face Aziraphale, her hands propped on her thin hips. “Why aren’t you ever on my side?”

“I’m always on your side,” Aziraphale said. “Our side, remember?” But she hated it—the way Antonia had to make a spectacle of everything, how she had to fight every piece of advice anyone said, how she quarreled with the girls at the lunch table because she didn’t fit in and she didn’t _want_ to fit in. They wouldn’t have so much of a difficult time if Antonia would just try—if not for her sake, than for Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale wanted to get through middle school in one piece, wanted to start high school without jeers and smirks in her direction, without the behind-the-hand comments about her weight that definitely couldn’t be passed off as baby fat anymore, maybe even be asked to the prom or go to a football game with a group instead of being regulated to spending her recesses with the librarian while Antonia sulked in detention. “I’m just trying to keep the peace.”

“Fuck peace,” Antonia muttered and shrugged off her angel wings, throwing them to the ground and stomping them underneath her glittery black flats. “Fuck them. Fuck everyone in this fucking town. One day, I’m going to leave and never come back, and I’ll never think of anyone here ever again!” 

That ache again, a twisting snake in her heart, constricted. Aziraphale tried to find words, but this hurt inside immobilized her. It felt like fear and loneliness all rolled into one and now that she was older, she was beginning to know how to put these feelings into words: _I’m not like them, I’m like you, but you keep categorizing me with them, and then you..and then you keep…threatening to leave me._ She almost couldn’t breathe around the thought.

“Aziraphale,” Antonia said, sounding exasperated, a whine to her voice. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean that we’ll leave _together,_ go off to the stars, right? You and me.” Antonia reached out, hesitated, and Aziraphale thought she might take her hand, but Antonia veered, took her backpack instead.

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale responded, refusing to meet Antonia’s eyes, looking instead to the spring blooms of the oak trees and rolling pink garden roses beginning to bud as they slogged back home. Behind her, Antonia’s black wings had been abandoned, crumpled and broken on the sidewalk. 

Aziraphale pushed the loneliness down, soothed by Antonia’s words. She stuffed that ache back into a box because she _knew_ Antonia wouldn’t leave her. They were tighter than sisters, laughing together, living together, learning magic together, romping around the meadows at the New England coven community gathering, dancing naked beneath the smiling moon. She knew down to her bones that when Antonia said ‘you all,’ Aziraphale was automatically excluded. And even if her gut screamed at her in negation, shrieked that Crowley would take Aziraphale’s words and use them against her—Aziraphale trusted her bones. Her bones were made out of the foundation of _their side._

In front of their house on the hill, Ashley Rollins pounded on the front door. Antonia shot Aziraphale a smirk, and Aziraphale reached out, gently touched the woman’s arm. “Can we help you, Mrs. Rollins?”

“Oh goodness,” Mrs. Rollins said, a frantic look to her as she pushed her straight honey-brown hair behind her ears. She pulled her ill-fitting jeans further up, her company-branded polo down. The sunlight slid behind the spires of the widow's walk, sending the grocer’s face into shadows. “Are your aunts home? I need to see them. It’s urgent.”

“Pretty sure they won’t answer,” Antonia said, tossing her long curls over her shoulder.. “Pretty sure you still own them money from the last time.”

“I have it here,” Mrs. Rollins said, pulling out a wad of crumpled twenties and fifties. “Whatever they did wore off. I need them to see me again. To reset it, or whatever it is they do to make things better. I’ll do anything. Can you please let me inside? Talk to them for me?”

“Aunt Agnes won’t like it,” Aziraphale said, shooting a frown at Antonia. 

“We could,” Antonia said, crushing Azriaphale’s foot with her own. “Might need some convincing on our side, though. Grease the wheels. You help us, we help you.”

“Right.” Mrs. Rollins held out a twenty. “How’s that…er.”

“Crowley,” Antonia said, snatching the money out of the woman’s hands. “Thanks. Give us a sec.” 

Together, they pushed past the grocer and inside their home. Mrs. Rollins began to pace the wrap-around porch, and Aziraphale wondered if she had a box of lonely, too, gathering dust in the attic of her heart, full to bursting from the wandering eye of her husband. She hated love, hated how it made women into these nervous birds, how it could transform hawks into fragile swallows. 

_Fuck him_ , Aziraphale thought as Antonia shuffled beside her, smoothing the twenty, never being able to stay still. _You don’t need him. All these spells you pay for never last. He’s not worth it._

“Get the aunts,” Antonia said, nudging Aziraphale’s shoulder even as her hand slid into Aziraphale’s, her slender fingers dry and cold. There was Mrs. Rollins love, and then there was Aziraphale’s love, and both were as different as could be. Aziraphale would always be a kestrel, small and vicious, but a fierce protector.

“Get the book,” Aziraphale snorted and turned away, feeling safe within the walls of their house and within their clasped hands.

***

The aunts pierced the heart of a small canary with a silver pin. Aunt Tracy shuffled her tarot cards. The dark purple tablecloth, pulled out specifically for clients, covered the well worn kitchen table, the butcher’s block creating an altar for Aunt Tracy to lay her Celtic spread. Aunt Agnes steepled her fingers under her chin as the canary finally stilled. She shot Mrs. Rollins the eye of doom that Crowley could feel even from her hiding spot on the stairs, asking her for the eighth time, “Ashley, are you certain you want to do this again?”

“He’s all I think about. Why—why the hell would I be here otherwise?” Mrs. Rollins dug into her jean pockets. Crumpled bills spilled across the tablecloth. Tracy laid her spread, a soft tutt of approval coming from her mauve mouth at the sight of The Lovers. 

“Do you think this counts as dark magic?” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. Together, they’d tucked themselves in the shadows, peering down as the aunts worked their craft through the bars of the staircase. Crowley sat on the step behind the blonde, her long skinny legs bracketing Aziraphale’s shoulders, Aziraphale snug in the spider-esque cradle of Crowley’s draping limbs.

“I don’t know, Antonia,” Aziraphale whispered back, and Crowley folded her arms on the broad spread of Aziraphale’s back, leaning into the solid weight of her. From this angle, she could see a slick sheen on Aziraphale’s rosebud mouth, the way her light eyelashes swept down over her bluebell eyes. But that wasn’t what Crowley loved the most about her—it was the way Aziraphale thought long and hard whenever Crowley asked a question, as if Crowley’s thoughts deserved such attention. Sure, she wished Aziraphale would follow the trend and call her by her last name, banish Antonia forever, but being this close, the magic strumming between them…Crowley wouldn’t give it up for the world. 

“They keep the dark spells away from us,” Aziraphale continued, “and Tracy always says the tarot speaks what you already know. It’s only there to confirm.”

Crowley huffed. “I want to see Aunt Agnes’ grimoire.”

That rose bud bloomed, a sly smile crossing Aziraphale’s lips, and Crowley knew that bastard look, that mischief-secret glance. “What?” she hedged, nudging Aziraphale with her knees.

“I snuck a look,” Aziraphale admitted, turning just enough for Crowley to see a smudge of brownie frosting clinging to the soft edge of her mouth.

“Without me?” Crowley asked, reaching out to swipe away the smear. “Tell me everything.” All the adults Crowley knew told her she couldn’t understand true love, but Crowley did. She’d been hopelessly in love with Aziraphale since the first time she laid eyes on her. This truth resonated in her bones, because the silverskin of her organs.

“One word. Necromancy.” Aziraphale’s smile grew wider.

“My, my,” Crowley drawled. “Breaking the house rules, Sweet Zee? That’s my job.”

“All in the name of good,” Aziraphale tutted, sounding too much like Tracy for Crowley’s liking. 

“The good of what?” Crowley asked.

“You were playing a prank on Kylie the Snob at school. If I found out she’d gutted you, I’d at least have my recourse planned. Keeping the family together and all. Even if resurrection became necessary.”

 _Aw._ Crowley’s heart melted. _Murder? In her name?_ “You’d make me a zombie? So we wouldn’t have to be separated?”

“Let’s not get hasty,” Aziraphale said. “I’m only saying it’s always good to be prepared.”

Crowley rested her forehead on the crown of Aziraphale’s head. Her messy braid slipped over Aziraphale’s shoulder, a dangerous sort of heat warming her inside and out. Aziraphale began to stroke the ends of the braid absently, and Crowley knew Sweet Zee studied the way Aunt Anges’ eyes unfocused and stared far into the distance, her hand scrawling prophecy in her grimoire. Beside her, Mrs. Rollins shifted in discomfort, but she knew the drill: cut the canary open with a scalpel, dug out the tiny heart. It belonged to her now, the organ bound to the flighty heart of her husband—or at least until the tiny thing curled and dried up like a raisin. 

“Ridiculous,” Aziraphale muttered under her breath, but Crowley had a sharp ear, always caught her murmurings. 

“Don’t worry about Mrs. Rollins. She knows what she’s asking for. Plus, we need the money,” Crowley assured her.

“No, I mean…” Aziraphale licked her lips. “Doesn’t it frighten you? Loving someone in that way? So much that you’d enslave them to you?”

Crowley fell silent, fear trembling beneath the surface of her pond, and she remembered claws slashing in the dark, the splash of blood coating the sand, the blank stare as her mother fell. She fell back on the language of old policies. “I can never fall in love. The curse, remember. Anyone who dare love a Crowley woman—”

“Yes, untimely death and all that.” 

Crowley’s throat dried up as she watched Aziraphale’s blunt fingers pluck at Crowley’s split ends. A familiar tug pulled on her own bird-promised heart: the need to nuzzle into Aziraphale’s neck and shout from the rooftops, _but I love you Aziraphale. You were the first thing I saw coming back to this world as a human, and it’s all I want, your arms around me. You’re all I’ve ever loved, but I can never have you._

Aziraphale turned suddenly, the red brush of Crowley’s hair tickling her jaw. “Tell me what happened,” Aziraphale asked, as she’d asked a hundred times before.. “Tell me about the curse.”

_I want to touch your heart-shaped face. I want to kiss your pink lips. Aziraphale, your eyes are the sky and ocean and all the pieces of nature that speak of freedom. I want to thumb across the apple of your cheeks, tell you that you’re the only reason I haven’t run away. You and the magic._

“You still haven’t told me, Antonia,” Aziraphale whispered, leaning in as if the closeness would be enough of a persuasion. “About what happened. You know you can tell me anything.”

Crowley’s lips parted, a confession at the tip of her tongue, and not saying I love you was becoming harder every day for her youthful heart. Yet, the hairs on the nape of her neck rose, sending goosebumps racing across her skin. In the distance, to no one’s ears but her own, she heard a scream. A mixture of woman and wolf, a beastly howl that sounded whenever she got too close to letting those words fly free. And it was the words that mattered, more than anything else. They were bullet and arrow, rope and blade. Words that killed.

She wouldn’t let the curse kill Aziraphale, Sweet Zee. Aziraphale was an angel, one that could never be darkened by Crowley’s cursed bloodline. Crowley wouldn’t survive it if she found Aziraphale’s broken neck in the black beast’s maw. Crowley wouldn't take another breath if Aziraphale’s warm blood painted the floorboards all because of Crowley’s damned love. It wouldn’t be survivable.

“I thought I told you to call me Crowley,” she growled out, instead. 

Aziraphale’s upturned nose wrinkled.

“You don’t like it?” Crowley asked, wracked with both melancholia and victory. Switching subjects on Aziraphale was almost too easy these days.

“I’ll get used to it,” Aziraphale grumbled. 

Crowley draped her arms fully over Aziraphale’s shoulders, making it a hug, pulling her in tight, breathing in her scent—a smell she’d tasted first as a serpent in a garden. “Let’s go upstairs and practice spells,” she said to Aziraphale. “I found one of Aunt Tracy’s flasks. We could get silly, maybe try to fly. You could write about our progress in that ridiculous journal of yours.”

Aziraphale’s hand tightened on Crowley’s arm and Crowley felt the quick press of her lips on Crowley’s skin. 

“C’mon, Sweet Zee,” Crowley whined. 

“Yes, alright,” Aziraphale huffed. “Temptation accomplished.”


	3. God and Hecate

Aziraphale discovered religion on the same day she discovered that she was a lesbian. 

_Even in Hades, I am with you._ Sappho’s fragment rumbled in her mind, the words sweet as chocolate on her tongue. Sunlight canted through the trees as she left the library, and she meandered down the old roads toward the coffee shop where she was to meet Antonia. They were older now, and while Antonia had traded out glitter for black-painted fingernails, she’d also found a niche of popularity with her runway-model shape, her grin that looked more like a baring of teeth, her reckless drawl that spoke of experimentation. Antonia could supply your party with booze and cigarettes, she drove fast enough to be a menace with her new driver’s license, she wore sunglasses indoors to hide her mysterious gaze, and she had a reputation for being wild, but not free enough that you’d find satisfaction. 

This month, Antonia’s golden stare had caught the attention of Jordan Salenger, some piss-poor guitarist who had his own band and sang covers of Good Charlotte and dedicated Velvet Underground lyrics to Antonia every Thursday until his eleven o’clock curfew. The coffee shop’s bell dinged as Aziraphale entered, and Antonia waved at her from a small table smack dab in the middle of the establishment. Aziraphale plopped into the empty chair Antonia had saved for her, pulling out her book, and Antonia slid her a London Fog while she sipped on her own espresso. Jordan stepped up to the mic and Aziraphale rolled her eyes as Antonia strained forward to a sharp angle of want, her broad teeth chewing her nails down to the quick, her round sunglasses pushed up high on her sharp nose. Aziraphale imagined she saw the future in the foam of her drink, but all she could think was that Antonia’s bright gaze was all for fucking Jordan Salenger of the patched jean jacket and high top converses.

Oh, and did she mention Good Charlotte sucked? Did she mention Velvet Underground made her want to vomit from the crooning lyrics? She couldn’t tell the difference between that drabble and…well, bebop.

Aziraphale sighed as the guitar began to strum and looked over to Antonia. She blinked, long and slow, relaxing in the moment of inattention to delight in the way Antonia’s black tee rode up her back, exposing the dimples on either side of her lower spine. Aziraphale studied the way Antonia’s long curls slid over her shoulder, loose and peppered with small braids. Aziraphale watched Antonia’s supple fingers, how they flickered and danced across her lips, and Aziraphale wished Antonia would push those fingers inside her, break whatever spell she was trying to weave around fucking Jordan Salenger, crook her head to the side as an indication she wanted Aziraphale to follow her out back to the alley where it smelled like spilled Mountain Dew, pot, and flipped hamburgers. Antonia would lift Aziraphale’s beige high-waisted skirt, put that red-painted gentle mouth on hers, bruise Aziraphale like a peach. 

_The Muses have filled my mind with delight…_

The stab of pleasant pain low in her belly struck her again, a kind of hurt that she ignored most of the time and only felt in select instances. But now, it made perfect sense. It made sense why no one had kissed her. Why she turned a blind eye to under-the-bleachers romance with a sniff of distaste. It made perfect sense that no one asked her to the prom, or invited her out to football games, or even asked her to slow dance. It made sense why she read _Pride & Prejudice _ with a tender, rolled eye, why she never understood the primal need to ride in cars with boys, why her eyes drew to the tight flatness of Antonia’s midriff in her summer bikini and only then felt that stab in her stomach.

And she wanted Antonia. She’d always wanted Antonia. Her best friend. The ache struck her again, and she felt a shiver of horror. That wasn’t fucking cramps or indigestion. That was goddamn arousal.

“I gotta go,” she said, hastily shoving her book back into her clutch bag. 

“Quitter,” Antonia said, but that was it. She didn’t have eyes for Aziraphale.

As Aziraphale stepped outside, she caught sight of herself in the coffee shop window, the wide hourglass curve of hips, the polka dot skirt, the way her button-up shirt hid everything that might be considered an asset. Reflected against the thin dark line of Antonia, a line that could cut, Aziraphale felt another stab of horror—that she was a teenager, would never be younger than she was now, and she looked like a _matron._

She burst into tears.

She slammed a hand over her mouth and hurried away, but oh Hecate, Kylie the Snob turned the corner with her posse and Aziraphale couldn’t—she simply couldn’t have someone give her the eye, whisper behind her back at how weird she was, _what was she crying about, another library book marked with cocks and balls? What a prude._ She dodged up a set of stairs, barely registering that she stepped into a church. It was better to be thought of as a god-loving nut-job than an accidental gold-star gay.

Inside, the dimming yellow rays of twilight caught the stained glass of the small church, sending colors dancing across the floor in spinning spirals. The pews shone, newly polished. On the altar, stage, whatever—a group of people listened intently to the mutterings of their leader. Then, as one, they took a collective breath.

Holy sound. Aziraphale froze as the chords coiled around her, the rise and resolution of bass and alto and soprano electrifying her. The box of lonely inside of her—at this point, chained and buried and re-buried in the cemetery of Aziraphale’s young regrets—unexpectedly stilled. 

Her hand now covered her mouth out of awe instead of despair. She’d never felt joy from music before. The grinding guitars slamming out of Antonia’s room made her wince, the foot-tapping swing of Tracy’s records was elevator racket.. But this—it encompassed her soul. Could it be peace? Elation? The lonely box vibrated, and it was as if it sang along with the choir. For once, Aziraphale felt like she could cry without shame. 

She eased into a pew to listen. She sought her journal, pulled out the ratty thing, full to bursting with half-baked notions, thoughts, and spells. Thinking of Sappho, she wrote on a fresh page, in pen: _I am a lover of women._

A crack opened in the box, and she put her ear to it, listened to the things it had to say and wrote them down. She penned the things _she’d_ always wanted to say, but had never had words for. This was God, she decided, or even Hecate. This peace came from the silence of the church, of a place for worship and thought. It came from the ringing chords spilling from the mouths of the choir. It floated over her like the sunlight her wilted flower of a heart didn’t know it needed. She had sought shelter—here it was. She sought understanding—here it was.

The song came to an end and she suddenly felt a hand touch her shoulder.

“Aziraphale? Are you alright?”

Aziraphale closed the journal, looked up into the face of the director, Mr. Hoffman. 

“Are you alright?” he asked again. 

Aziraphale wiped her face and nodded. “Can I…can I learn how to sing with you? Can I join your choir?”

“We’re a religious group,” he said, hesitant, and Aziraphale nodded glumly. She knew the rumors that circulated the high school, was even more attuned to the ones that circled the small island community. _Witch, witch, you’re a witch._ Her family had always been…different.

“I understand,” Aziraphale said. 

Mr. Hoffman bit his lip, thoughts warring across his face. “You don’t mind that?” he asked. 

“The religious songs? Oh, no. It sounds so beautiful.”

“We’d love to have you then,” Mr. Hoffman said, and the war negotiated peace on his face. One side had won. “I bet you’re a soprano. You can sight read with Alice.”

“Really?” Aziraphale breathed. She followed Mr. Hoffman to the front, stood next to a blonde, and felt her cheeks flush with acceptance. She had been asked to join something, join a tribe, been offered a place because of who she was, not what she was. 

Alice adjusted her cross necklace, and lowered the folder so Aziraphale could see better. 

“I’m a lesbian,” Aziraphale told her.

Alice blinked hard and then sighed. “That doesn’t worry me. What worries me is you don’t know how to count measures.”

That peace worked its way around Aziraphale again, and even if she barely sang and instead stood in a kind of new rapture as the music surrounded her, she wondered if maybe she had found something that could be solely hers—a kind of destiny. 

***

“Where have you been?” Antonia called out as Aziraphale walked inside the house. “You _bailed_ on me.”

“You were in the musical thrall of Jordan,” Aziraphale said, dropping her bag on the couch beside Antonia and flopping down into the cushions. A fire crackled in the hearth, bathing the living room in shades of yellow and orange and shadow. The edges of her borrowed books on music theory and beginner’s practice sheets peeked out of the top of her purse. Aziraphale had stayed behind after the choir practice ended and Mr. Hoffman had mapped out her range with the piano. A soprano, indeed. Mr. Hoffman hadn’t been able to hide his grin as he tinkled the piano’s top notes, and she matched it with difficulty, yet it still felt as if the high pitch was a bell inside her belly and once struck, it rang out of her throat. He’d asked her to set up a lesson with him—he could get her to reach those notes easily, maybe they could finally order that score he’d always wanted to work on, if Aziraphale would join, if she’d be their high soprano. She’d had to walk home in the dark, and for once, the box of lonely stayed quiet and somehow, fulfilled.

“Nah.” Antonia stretched out on the couch. “His mom is _so_ strict. When she says eleven, she means eleven. I wanted you and me to walk the beach after, but then lo, you’d disappeared. Where’d ya go?”

“Just out,” Aziraphale said, the peace disappearing, penetrated by a glow of uneasiness.

“Sure.” Antonia paused and glared. “You’re not gonna tell me.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“Uh huh.” She snatched Aziraphale’s bag, digging inside and tossing the music and practice books haphazardly on the couch. “What the hell is all this shit? Bach chorale? O Magnum Mysterium? The fuck?” 

Aziraphale flushed, this time with embarrassment, and gathered the music back into a neat pile. “Antonia—”

“Ah,” Antonia said, wrenching out Aziraphale’s journal. “My trusty friend. You’ll explain what Sweet Zee is keeping from me.”

“Antonia, don’t,” Aziraphale said, panic poisoning her blood, slipping into her veins as cold dread. She lunged for the book, but Antonia slithered out of the way, leaping on the coffee table, the journal open in her hands. 

Aziraphale grabbed her legs, sending Antonia plummeting onto the floor and then the fight was on—legs akimbo, pulled hair, Aziraphale’s screams of frustration mingling with Antonia’s fierce swearing. Finally, Antonia pinned Aziraphale, her bony knees digging into Aziraphale’s shoulders. She flipped the journal open with that raw grin. “There, now. Let’s see—”

“Crowley, I’m begging you, please, let go of me, let me up, don’t—”

“I am a lover of women,” Antonia read. “A lady of Lesbos.”

Aziraphale wanted to die. The words felt like bullets, small but explosive, ripping her apart. The absolute peace evaporated into all-encompassing shame. 

“‘When I think of being kissed, I want it to be with a woman. I want her softness against me, the intimacy between us. I want to take a gorgeous woman in my arms, feel her waist under my hands, kiss her hair. I’ve always been this way, but now I can say it.’ Aziraphale what in Hecate’s name—”

“I hate you,” Aziraphale gasped and the sobs overcame her, being drowned in defeat. Antonia had ripped open the box of lonely with her games and grins, let the weight crush Aziraphale. She loved Antonia the most, so of course it would be Antonia who would be the knife in her gut, the noose strangling her. 

Shock covered Antonia’s face, and she eased off Aziraphale. Aziraphale yanked the journal out of Antonia’s limp hands. She tore the pages out and flung them into the fire, watched the loops and dots of her writing become consumed into ember and ash. “You’re unforgivable,” Aziraphale said, her voice now a screech. 

“I’m sorry,” Antonia whispered, soft with hurt. “I didn’t know.” 

Did she feel revulsion? Another terrible thought coursed through Aziraphale—she would lose Antonia now for sure. Antonia wouldn’t want to be near her, would think the worst things about Aziraphale. Because of Aziraphale’s nature, Antonia wouldn’t love her.

“Well, now you do.” Aziraphale’s hands hurt with how hard they clenched around the journal, and with sudden certainty, she chucked the whole thing into the flames. Too stained with memory, now. It wasn’t hers, anymore. It was just another joke, another piece of her that no one would want, another reminder of this moment that she was loath to recall. Behind her, Antonia made a muted noise of negation, dodged closer to the flames as if considering whether to save the journal. No point, Aziraphale thought. Let the cheap paper burn. Let her words burn.

Aziraphale grabbed all her music and fled upstairs to her room, shut the door with a bang, and then slid down against it. The box of lonely had been scattered, and Aziraphale knew a simple box would no longer do. This thing had grown. It overwhelmed her. She put her face in her hands and sobbed.

***

The knock came hours later. “It’s Agnes.” 

Aziraphale had cried herself dry and now analyzed her loneliness, a Marianas Trench of unfathomable depth and darkness. She sighed and scooted forward, reaching up from her seated spot to open the door. 

Agnes slipped inside and closed the door carefully. She sat next to Aziraphale and put her arms around her. Against her will, Aziraphale started to cry again. 

“Crowley is in a state,” Agnes whispered. 

“She’s in a state?” Aziraphale parroted, her voice reaching screeching levels again. “She’s the one in a state?”

“Inconsolable, from what I can make out from all the weeping and the look Tracy gave me.. Sounds like you two had a fight? A bad one?”

“You could say that.” Aziraphale’s lips felt numb. “It’s all her fucking fault in the first place.”

Aunt Tracy would have admonished her for using such _language._ Aunt Agnes hummed the way neutral parties do and touched the music scattered across the floor. “What’s all this, then?”

“I…want to join the church choir,” Aziraphale said, feeling like she had nothing to lose now. She was a parody of everything she thought she’d become. “I want to learn how to sing. I think I can get discounted lessons from Mr. Hoffman.”

“Really, now. That’s a surprise.”

Aziraphale uttered a choked sound of despair. Why did it have to be a surprise? Why couldn’t it simply be a good thing? 

Aunt Agnes rubbed comforting circles on her back. “I can call him in the morning.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a slip of worn paper. She fingered it, reading it over before handing it to Aziraphale. “I wrote this a long time ago. Been carrying it with me ever since. Can you make heads or tails of it?”

The paper had faded to yellow, the black ink smeared. _A powerful wytch will unite Hecate and God together in the name of love, for both are women, to be sung with a voice of an angel._

A new flood of tears overwhelmed Aziraphale and she buried her face in Agnes’ shoulder. 

“I thought as much,” Aunt Agnes said, holding her close. “I wrote this hours before you were born, you know. The prophecy is yours, for you alone.” She put her finger under Aziraphale’s chin, lifting her face up. “Just as Crowley is yours, for you alone. Should I send her up here for you to make up?”

Aziraphale shrugged. She didn’t want to see Antonia, didn’t know what Agnes meant, but then and again, Agnes was always saying things that made sense much later. 

Agnes cupped Aziraphale’s face and pressed their foreheads together. “You’re the strongest woman I know,” she said, “because of your capacity to forgive. Your mother was like that. I tell her every single day how proud she would be of her daughter.”

“Do you miss her?” Aziraphale asked, clinging to the mention of Agnes’ long gone sister.

A sheen of tears coated Agnes’ eyes. “Every day. I wish…” She paused, cleared her throat. “I wish I could be as forgiving. I wish I had been there for her more, in her time of darkness.”

“Thank you, Aunt Agnes.”

Agnes kissed her cheeks, stood, and opened the door. “You can come in,” she whispered to the hallway.

Antonia emerged, her face bright red, her serpent-slit eyes blown wide, and she hiccuped something intelligible before stepping into the room, fiddling with the edge of her tee, unable to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “I’m s-s-sorry,” she whispered. 

Oh, right on cue. The ache. Aziraphale held her arms out, as she did once before when Antonia was new to her. “Come here.”

The words seemed to break Antonia. A sob ripped out of her throat, her shoulders heaved, and she launched into Aziraphale’s arms, lifting to wrap her legs around Aziraphale’s waist, her arms like iron around Aziraphale’s throat. “I forgive you,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s hair. “I forgive you.”

_I love, even unwilling._


	4. Snail Mail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the warnings. They apply from here on out.

Crowley smothered her fond chuckle when Aziraphale turned around from her stance on the small balcony attached to her room and pushed her big-framed glasses up. She looked like a cat lady, all decked out in a white fluffy robe with her blonde curls braided in pigtails, her teacup still steaming between her perched fingers. Crowley’s heart gave a sad wheeze that she had to leave this gorgeous, eccentric creature. That this would be the final time she saw Aziraphale and the memory she would carry of her best friend and love of her life would forever look like that. A cat lady.

The black beast of her curse howled, leaving Crowley momentarily deaf. She scolded her mourning heart because things would be better soon. She was getting out of Coupeville and taking her curse with her. Crowley sauntered out onto the balcony next to Aziraphale and threw her army green duffle bag over the rail to where Gillian Moss caught it with a wide grin. Beyond Gillian, her Toyota escape vehicle rumbled, waiting for them to drive off into the sunset as lovers. Crowley knew this fake romance was going to save Aziraphale. It was going to ensure that the curse never hurt Aziraphale. Aziraphale, the cat lady with the voice of an angel, always and forever the true north of Crowley’s compass.

“I feel like I'm never going to see you again,” Aziraphale said, her voice thick. Crowley wrenched away from the new life waiting for her, the life she was sneaking off into the night for, with only one goodbye. Her diploma was folded in the bag. She’d barely graduated, but C’s get degrees, right?

“Of course you will,” Crowley said, holding all the broken promises she’d ever made to Aziraphale.. What was one more? “We’ll grow old together. It’ll be you and me living in this big old house. Two biddies with tons of cats. I bet we even die on the same day.”

“But we had a plan,” Aziraphale said, looking up with those sorrowful, bluebell eyes, as if she hadn’t already broken Crowley’s heart in a million ways. “I got into that music program. We were going to go to Boston, then New York. I already made a down payment on that apartment for us.”

“Now you can live in the dorm. No commute, no distance from rehearsals. You’ll be smack dab in the middle of everything, living the life. Hey, trust me. This is for the best.”

A tear slipped down Aziraphale’s cheek. “Why did you change your mind?” She glared darkly down at Gillian, who clutched all of Crowley’s worldly possessions with a wild grin. Los Angeles waited for them: sun, ocean, and clubs. Gillian said she loved Crowley, and while Crowley never said it back, she felt enough affection for the girl that this fling might last. 

“It’s not like you’re going to marry her,” Aziraphale continued. Her voice carried that undercurrent of hate Crowley had first detected when Crowley decided she was bi. When Crowley had told Aziraphale she’d gotten a girlfriend the very next week. “She’s not enough for you.”

“What’s enough?” Crowley shrugged, leaned against the railing, her shirt hiking up so the cold air caressed her midriff. “I hate it here. I want to go where no one’s ever even heard of us.”

“We can have that in Boston.”

“I’m never going to go to college, angel.” 

The nickname still felt fresh after all these years. She gave it to Aziraphale after being dragged to the old church for the Easter concert, after the piercing bell of Aziraphale’s voice sent shivers down her spine, making tears press against her eyes. The curse howled closer than ever, making Crowley leave before the concert even finished. She had thrust the bouquet of flowers she’d bought into Aunt Tracy’s arms and told her this fucking house of worship was giving her hives. 

“You’re going to become this amazing opera singer. I’m going to fuck off in California. We can have the lives we want.”

“And you want a life with Gillian,” Aziraphale said.

“Sure,” Crowley shrugged. “Or maybe I’ll meet a guy I like. Perks of being bi.” She winked. “We’ll write all the time. I bought that specialty stationary just for you.”

Aziraphale reached out, her fingers spanning through Crowley’s loose hair. For once, Crowley let herself enjoy it and didn't push Aziraphale away. After all, Crowley was saying goodbye forever, but she didn’t want Aziraphale to know that.

“You know Agnes is about to throw me out anyway,” Crowley continued to babble. “Caught a good look at her grimoire, me. All that dark magic is mine.” She wiggled her fingers.

Aziraphale bit her lip, whispered in a choked voice. “I love you.”

Crowley crushed her in a hug before she had to respond, because that was the problem. If she let this go on any longer, Aziraphale would say that again one day and Crowley would slip, say it back without thinking, and then the curse would tear Aziraphale’s throat out. She muttered something quick and fast and intelligible before she broke away and shimmied down the drainpipe. She jumped on Gillian’s back and waved up at Aziraphale with a huge grin, as if to say _don’t wait on me._ As if to say, _you don’t have to worry about me._ As if to tell Aziraphale, _I love you, but I can’t. It’s too dangerous._

***

Antonia wrote to her. Long letters, full of bad spelling and heartfelt prose, sealed with wax. 

Aziraphale called, left voice messages, sent texts, a slew of instant communication. Then, she’d mope when Antonia never responded. Yet somehow, she’d get a letter a few days later, addressing Aziraphale’s concerns described in the text, spouting some kind of lie about how her phone fell in the toilet, she lost all her contacts and the voicemail mysteriously deleted, technology was so unreliable, could Aziraphale please put her thoughts in a letter? 

At first, it never failed to leave Aziraphale fighting tears, just as she fought being homesick, afraid, and alone in a brand new place. It wasn’t normal, communicating as if phones didn’t exist, but after a time she accepted it for what it was. After all, her box of lonely had become a house, and Antonia occupied the upstairs. Aziraphale shuffled all her disappointment and longing up there, locked the attic with the skeleton key and told herself to be content with what she could get. Letters were better than having nothing at all. 

_My Dear Antonia,_

_I’ve taken up Latin! It makes learning music so much easier, and now I can really express what the songs mean. I haven’t had much time for anything else, but I’ve tried out for the symphony choir and have secured a solo in the next concert. My professors say I work harder than anyone else. I haven’t made many friends, but you know how I am. Sometimes it’s difficult to connect with people. I’m trying. I started composing my own work, sadly dubbed the Hecate Aria in honor of our aunts and the evolution in witchcraft based on the psalms of the bible. I’m quite proud of it. It might get published. I’m coming home for Thanksgiving—will I see you?_

But Antonia had gotten snowed in at the Minneapolis airport, missing Aziraphale by hours. At Christmas, Antonia had picked up a three month gig over the holiday season and couldn’t afford the trip home. Over summer break, Antonia said she’d begun managing the social media for a music club, that even if Aziraphale came to visit her instead, they’d never be able to see each other because of the hours. It wasn’t worth it. 

_Sweet Zee!_

_You’ll never guess—I’m in Orlando! Skinny dipping with the dolphins. I have a million new friends, but I’m only thinking of you. Left my ex in the dust, what a jerk. I’ve got more freckles than ever because I’m sunbathing too much, but I’m loving it. You know I’m a cold-blooded thing. Happy Fourth of July, I miss you! Wish I could be there, but you know how I can’t pass up this gig of being Ariel at Disney World. Think of the children, angel._

_XOXO,_

_Crowley_

“Look,” Aziraphale said, shoving the postcard at Aunt Tracy. “Antonia’s in Florida.”

“Oh my,” Tracy said, before waving at the gaggle of children running by with lit sparklers in their hands. “Hello, Charlie! You’re all having a fun time after the parade? Katie, are those light-up sneakers?”

“Trace, give it up,” Agnes said, rolling her eyes. “Crowley must’ve left what’s-his-name in New Orleans if she’s moved states again.”

“She keeps going through all these people,” Aziraphale said. Her feet felt like lead. The sadness at Antonia’s apparent happiness made her shoulders slump. Sunbathing until tan and posing as a purple-clamshelled princess on floats in front of millions _—_ it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Antonia had found her purpose, had found such joy in drifting from place to place, seeing all these sights Aziraphale never would. It wasn’t fair that Aziraphale felt like she had nothing to show for her music degrees and her compositions except for notes scribbled on paper, a write up in the local newspaper, some praise from her professors.

“Maybe one day, she’ll find someone who will go through her.” Agnes squeezed Aziraphale’s hand in reassurance. “She’s not meant to settle.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard, hated herself for her own desire for just that. She loved her choir and her work, but somehow it didn’t feel enough. She felt like her friends were simply used to her at this point and she’d only had one lover—some half-drunken fling with a trombone player who’d awkwardly let herself out of Aziraphale’s apartment with a high-pitched awkward laugh and a “This is what college is for, right?”

College was turning out to be much different than Aziraphale expected. Aziraphale pined for the days when she had a confidant, when Antonia slipped into her bed in the early hours of the morning and they hid under the sheets and made fun of everyone they knew. She ached to be able to look at Antonia with a raised eyebrow and Antonia would know exactly what she needed, totally got the joke Aziraphale was making. “I miss her,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Oh sweetie,” Tracy said, pulling her under her arm. “Maybe you could try to visit her again?”

“What’s the point? Her message is loud and clear. There’s only so many times you can drop your phone in the toilet or have your contacts wiped. I’m slow, but not that slow.” Aziraphale flicked the thick cardboard of the postcard. “She’s avoiding me. Has been for years.”

The trees shook in the breeze, sending green leaves floating down the road. The ocean sparkled with the sun. Tracy and Agnes exchanged looks.

Did Aziraphale mention that her house of lonely had a bell on top? A chime that resonated through her and physically manifested as a sharp stab under her ribs? She felt it sometimes, when she spent her off days holed up in the library. When she came back from her weekend of silence to hear about the escapades of her fellow soprano singers, how they tried to text her to join but the texts oddly never went through. Or when the desire to hear Antonia’s voice hit her like a hammer strike at the grocery store as she bought food for one. She always pulled out her phone, her finger hovering over Antonia’s name, and knew no matter how hard she wished, it would always be the same. Voicemail. 

She felt that chime now.

***

_Dear Antonia,_

_I sold my Hecate Aria! I’m touring as the lead and will be in Washington at the end of the month. Could we see each other? Even on your lunch break. Anytime, anywhere, I’ll make it happen. I saved you a ticket at the concert hall so you can hear my performance! Please say you’ll come. I’ve started something new—an opera between Heaven and Hell, but I truly want to write music to Jane Austen’s Persuasion, maybe even start a series of compositions dedicated to my favorite books. People are starting to recognize me. I’m working to put out a record, too, and find my five minutes of fame. At least, that’s what I tell my agent. I’m so excited to see you. It’s been too long._

_WIth stupid amounts of love and equal amounts of vexation,_

_Aziraphale_

_Angel,_

_That’s amazing—I always knew you’d make it big with that voice of yours! I wish I could see you perform, but I’m heading to Oklahoma this week. Sounds like I’ll just miss you. Will your music be on Spotify? I’ll download it and be able to listen to it as I’m driving through the plains at the same time you’ll be singing on stage. It will be like I’m there. I bought a car—a vintage thing that I adore. It’s the best thing I’ve ever owned. Here, I’ve sent a picture, old school Kodak style. You’ll say it's ridiculous. That I’ll drive too fast. Miss you more than I can say._

_Crowley_

When Aziraphale read the short missive delivered to her on the tour bus, when she looked at the picture of a sleek black car without Crowley even posing in the picture, she felt like she could have stood up then and there and screamed and no one would even take the time to hear her. 

***

Aziraphale toured. Azriaphale wrote. Aziraphale sang in opera houses. She became used to her house of lonely, occupying the downstairs of it. Romance was a thing of mystery at this point and Aziraphale had given up on the notion, decided it wasn’t in her cards to have someone to build a life with. She had her music and her books and her enjoyment of fine dining, and she could love that just as much as she loved a person. She’d accepted this life of solitude.

She took the summer off and went home, more than ready to charge her batteries with the slow, island life. On a lark, she decided to make a custard and woke up early to peruse the summer market. Her straw basket swung on her arm. A floppy hat kept the sun off her upturned nose. Her shirtwaist dress gave her plump figure an hourglass appearance. She picked up a dozen eggs, pondered over the state of a bushel of rosemary, puttered around the handmade soaps, and finally bought herself a homemade lemonade from the local kids for five cents. In the distance, the breeze let the sailboats cut through the drifting waves. She reached out to choose an arrangement of violets to take home for Aunt Tracy when a hand fell on top of hers. Aziraphale looked up into the brown eyes of the new high school band director and together they laughed at the unexpected meet-cute.. 

Sally was everything Aziraphale ever wanted. She loved botanicals, gushed over Aziraphale’s latest album, made bad jokes that had Aziraphale in stitches. She seemed to listen when Aziraphale talked—not just heard her, but filed away the information for later, as if Aziraphale were a person of interest. They waltzed to lunch together and Aziraphale began to build a gazebo in the backyard of her lonely house, a place freshly painted where roses, daffodils, and lavender could sprout and grow. 

The next week, they went to a wine tasting. Sally gasped at Aziraphale’s bravery when Aziraphale slipped a bottle of chardonnay into her purse. Sally giggled helplessly when Aziraphale showed her how to sneak into the high school undetected, and Sally played a ditty on the shitty school piano while Aziraphale sang along, making up dirty lyrics until Sally blushed, and they both drank the wine until they ended up making out on the ratty old couch in Sally’s office. The next day, Aziraphale felt like a bundle of nerves, hoping that this wasn’t just an experiment, but Sally blinked soft eyes at her and asked if she’d like to see a movie.

Tucked in the back of the theater, Aziraphale didn’t know what the movie was, especially not when Sally leaned over her and kissed her with gentle lips. Not when Aziraphale rucked up Sally’s skirt and had her panting into Aziraphale’s throat. Not when Aziraphale undid Sally’s cardigan and brushed the tips of her nipples, seeking warm flesh. Sally left Aziraphale stunned when Sally actually sought out Aziraphale, wanting to see every inch of her, as if she didn’t care that Aziraphale was plus-sized, that she had rolls instead of lean lines.

For the first time, Aziraphale could say _I think I’m in love,_ and mean it. Sally felt safe and good and true. Aziraphale adored Sally’s long dark hair, the way they whispered dreams to each other, how Sally didn’t scoff when Aziraphale admitted she wanted to give up the touring life, buy a bookshop. It felt like, maybe, Sally wanted those things too. A normal life, one peppered with extraordinary ordinariness. 

_Dear Antonia,_

_Sally and I are moving in together. It’s been a year, and some might say that’s too soon, but we walked by that old yellow house on the corner by the pier, you know the one. It was for sale and I just knew. I bought it. I have a mortgage now—Hecate, how old are we?? We’ve been so busy we haven’t had much time to pack—between the dinner parties and game nights, I can scarcely find time for myself to write. But I’m having so much fun. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy before. Antonia, I think I’m going to marry this girl. If I did ask her, would you approve? I want you to meet her before I do. Do you think we could plan something? You’ll love her, I know it._

_Waiting anxiously for a reply, and thinking about the time we played Joni Mitchell and drove circles around the island for hours,_

_Aziraphale_

_Angel, Sweet Zee, Aziraphale—_

_Married? You’re going to get married? Just fall right into the class system and get tax breaks and be like everyone else? What do the aunts think? I’ll have to check my schedule, see where I’m at. I’ve met someone too, her name is Gemma, she’s so intense. She has this Dracula-cowboy edge to her. She’s part of a band and I’m going to be on the bus with her for the next year. I’ll finally get a taste of this touring life you’ve been living. Don’t think Massachusetts is on our list, but you never know. I bet Sally is a doll. She better make you happy, or I’ll have to kill her. -Crowley_

When Aziraphale got the letter, the chime didn’t sound as loud, but the rejection still vibrated through her. She’d expected it, the dismissal, but it still didn’t stop quiet, disappointed tears. Sally found her mournful on the couch, rubbed Aziraphale’s back in soothing circles, and asked _what was wrong, what was really wrong, don’t just say you’re fine, Zira, talk to me._ Aziraphale discovered that the shingles and beams of her lonely house were being replaced with Sally’s strength. While Antonia had left Aziraphale’s heart a skeleton of good bones, Aziraphale needed more. She needed more. Sally gave her more.

They married at the courthouse. Most of the guests were from Sally’s side of the family. The aunts wept with joy and gave the happy couple all their good china. An ostentatious bouquet of flowers waited at their new home with a note from Antonia, apologizing for being absent, but she had jury duty. Aziraphale excused herself and had a little cry. 

“Fuck her,” Sally said quietly, looking so trim in her white dress. “I don’t know if I want to meet her.”

“She’s a lovely person,” Aziraphale hiccuped, feeling as if Crowley’s actions reflected on Aziraphale’s choices as a person and as a friend. “I don’t want you to hate her.”

“You can’t hate someone you haven’t met or someone who’s never there,” Sally said, brushing Aziraphale’s hair out of her face. “But I will hate her if you keep crying on our wedding day. This is our day and I love you, every single facet of you. And I can’t wait to start a life with you, have a family with you. Just you and me.”

Aziraphale almost exploded from happiness. But with the sweet comes the sour.

***

Aziraphale nearly broke the door with how hard she slammed it behind her. Aunt Agnes jumped up from her place at the kitchen table. Aziraphale ripped the grimoire from her hands, and began flipping through it frantically. “Was it the curse?” she demanded, nearly on the verge of a serious and bleak break down. ‘Was it because I loved her so much?”

“Of course not,” Tracy said, but the spread was laid on the table, the cards reversed. Death. Tower. Hanged Man. The Wheel. Aziraphale closed her eyes, fighting the surge of grief. Just yesterday, Tracy had called her in a panic asking where Sally was just as Aziraphale heard screams outside her newly opened bookshop, saw Sally’s body crumpled before the hood of a truck. How Aziraphale had dropped the phone and ran, cradling Sally’s body, the deep black blood slick and warm in her hands. 

“The curse is for the Crowley women,” Agnes said softly. “Us Fell women simply have bad luck.”

“Sally wasn’t bad luck,” Aziraphale screamed, her voice echoing in the old house, “and I want her back.”

“We can’t do that,” Tracy said. “We can’t cast that spell on her, not after the first one—”

Agnes hit Tracy hard in the arm, but the words were wrecking balls, slamming into Aziraphale’s house, and even the strongest most protected dwelling couldn’t survive the onslaught of a wildfire, a tornado, a tsunami. The resurrection spell lay before Aziraphale, the belladonna drawn in blue ink wavering in and out of focus as she realized what they had done. “Oh,” she gasped, the pain under her ribs enough to make her fall to her knees. “Don’t tell me…that my own flesh and blood…”

“It was just a little push,” Tracy said, her hands winding together, the bright blue eyeshadow smeared with her own tears. “We wanted so much for you to be happy. We didn’t know, when we cast the spell, that you’d love her so much.”

“Well, I did,” Aziraphale said. “I did. You brought her into my life, so now you bring her back. I know you can. I saw the spell.”

“We can’t do that. Even if we did, she wouldn’t be Sally. She’d be something dark and unnatural.” Aunt Agnes reached out and carefully closed the grimoire. 

“I don’t care what she comes back as, as long as she comes back. We were going to adopt a b-b-baby. The parents won’t give the boy to me now as a widow. They won’t give me my child unless she comes back. I can’t do this without her, I’m nothing without her. Please?” Aziraphale’s hands covered her mouth and she was so sick of herself, of her weakness, of her begging. “Please? For the love of Hecate, _please_.” 

“Oh, dearie,” Tracy said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t let me be alone,” Aziraphale whispered. In the span of a day, she’d lost everything. “I’ve never asked for anything. I’ve always been good. I’ve always done the right thing.”

Agnes looked like she might break. Tracy put a hand out, as if to strengthen her. “Your mother asked us to help her once,” Tracy said. “She loved and lost someone, too, but we wouldn't help her then, and we can’t help you now. We love you deeply, but what you ask of us isn’t right.”

“And then she killed herself,” Aziraphale said, wanting to hurt. “You wouldn’t help her because you don’t know what it's like to love someone and you let her kill herself.” She might do the same honestly, now that she knew how love could destroy you.

“Yes,” Agnes said. “I’ve never regretted anything more.”

“But you haven’t learned from it,” Aziraphale snarled. “You’ll let me die, just as you let her die.” 

Agnes made a choking sound. Tracy hushed her, pulled Agnes into her arms. Aziraphale wiped her nose, stood, and wobbled outside. No one followed her. There was nothing left for her here. 

***

Crowely’s phone buzzed against her leg for what felt like the twentieth time, but amidst the thudding bass and the screaming fans in the mosh pit, she almost didn’t feel it. She pulled her phone out, looked at the screen. Eleven missed calls. Eleven messages. Texts for days. All from _Angel._ She tugged on Gemma’s arm. “I gotta piss,” she yelled. 

Gemma smiled at her, pulled her closer. “Maybe we should go together.”

“It’s just to the bathroom,” Crowley said, stepping back and slipping out of the venue. A dull ringing struck up in her ears as she saw a new voicemail pop up. 6 minutes, 12 seconds. The longest message she’d ever gotten from Aziraphale.

The alcohol in her system slammed to a stop. Her fingers hovered over the play button, felt the soft wheeze of ancient want strum through her again. She’d decided, that last night with Aziraphale, that she could never see Aziraphale or hear Aziraphale’s voice again. Otherwise, she’d go crawling back to the angel. She’d tell the curse to fuck right off, and she’d curl in Aziraphale’s warmth. But then, Aziraphale would be killed by Crowley’s love. Crowley could never go home, because home was Aziraphale. 

Crowley could only communicate with letters. Endless letters. 

Even so, she pressed play, heard the panicked, “Antonia—” and immediately deleted it. She deleted all the voicemails without listening, deleted all texts without looking, and put the phone to her ear to call Tracy. 

***

The letters piled up on the old desk sitting in the corner of Aziraphale’s childhood room. Aziraphale slept in the too-small, squeaky bed with the covers over her head, refusing to look at any of Antonia’s fucking letters. Her pier house with the view had gone on the market and sold just as quickly. The funeral expenses had been paid for. The adoption papers had been terminated. The sign on her bookshop remained turned to ‘closed.’ All of Sally’s goods had gone through escrow because there hadn’t been a will. The nightmare had ended in some ways and in others it was just beginning.

It had been months. The house of lonely had grown into a mansion. Aziraphale was dangerously close to doing something drastic in her grief.

She wanted so much more out of life than this. After leaving home, she thought she’d find deep friendships, a deeper love, a community of strength. Instead, she found a person magicked to fall in love with her and a best friend who refused to see her or talk to her except through fucking snail mail. 

_Antonia, please pick up. Please, please. Sally is…gone, Sally is dead, oh god oh god she’s dead. Antonia I need you to come here. I need to bring Sally back, but I need at least one more powerful witch and the fucking aunts are useless. Please don’t leave me here. You can get out of any jury duty, bail on any work, just please answer me. I know we can do this together. Please, call me back. I can’t do this without you. I’m in trouble, I think I might...just, please call me back. If you ever loved me, call me._

Did Antonia call back? Of course not. And then the letters began to show up. Aziraphale couldn’t stomach the excuses. She couldn’t stomach the lies. Antonia was dead to her, but Aziraphale knew she could never cut someone out of her life completely. If she did that, then everyone she ever knew would be gone because they wouldn’t fight to stay, and there wasn’t anyone else in the world that would want to take their place. There were no new people.

This will be the thing that kills me, she thought. This loneliness will be the death of me. 

She could tell Antonia to fuck off and Antonia probably would. And then Aziraphale would have no one. Absolutely no one.

She rolled out of bed and sat at the desk. Her first draft to Antonia was full of rage and accusation, of all encompassing grief and unanswered questions. She sealed it with wax and stuck it between the final bill from the mortuary and the official document of a terminated adoption. Then, she pulled out a second sheet of paper.

_Crowley,_

_I apologize for my absence. I have sold my house and moved back in with the aunts. I’m keeping my bookshop, but things have become uncertain for me, giving me no time to write. I hope you understand. I hope you are well, and I am saddened I did not see you at the funeral. I understand though, I know how life can be so very busy._

_Sincerely,_

_Aziraphale_

***

“What do you mean, she stopped singing?” Crowley asked. “What do you mean she cut off all her hair?”

In the Bentley’s passenger seat, Gemma grinned at her and lit a joint. Crowley hated talking to the aunts in front of Gemma, but sometimes it proved a necessity. Crowley had been with Gemma for a while now, and Gemma gave two shits about where Crowley came from, and didn't care about Crowley’s past. Gemma loved crossfit and working up a sweat, and sex, and sometimes, when Crowley lay in Gemma’s arms with bruises on her neck, she knew Gemma was strong enough to break the curse. She hadn’t heard its howl in months. 

“Tracy says it will pass,” Agnes said, as if she were trying to convince herself, “but she’s not doing well. It reminds me of how…how her mother was before…before the suicide.”

“What about her friends? Her trivia team? She and Sally had that fucking yacht club they went to—”

“No one’s been around,” Agnes interrupted. “No one’s come to the house.”

Crowley bit her lip, guilt and worry clutching her insides. “Maybe they’re giving her space.”

“She won’t talk to anyone. She won’t talk to us…”

A flare of anger on behalf of Aziraphale sent the words careening out of Crowley’s mouth. “Did you really put a love spell on Sally?”

Aunt Agnes made an uncomfortable clicking noise in her throat. “Had to bind it with molasses to make it stick.”

“Agnes, that’s awful.”

“She wasn’t supposed to find out.”

“How did she take it?”

“How do you expect?” Agnes snarled. “Aziraphale’s never had people. Not like you do.”

“She just needs time. She has to heal.”

“I think you need to come home.”

“I can’t,” Crowley said, glancing at Gemma. Gemma preened as if Crowley were choosing her, and that flare of anger became one of fury. Crowley stomped it out, quickly. 

“Why not?” Agnes sounded outraged. “It’s been years, Crowley. This time is different, much more than just a bloody social call. She needs you. You.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“Why? Because of the curse?” Agnes said. Words they’d regret later were brewing, Crowley could taste it in the air. “You love her, don’t you? Is that why you’re running—”

“Who are you on the phone with?”

Oh, that voice, that gorgeous angelic voice cackled through the speaker. Rough-sounding, sure, but still infused with soft sweetness that hadn’t disappeared. Tears stung Crowley’s eyes, and she thanked Hecate for her sunglasses. How she missed Aziraphale, like a piece of her had been carved out. She swallowed hard as she heard Agnes’ quickly say, “No one.”

“It’s Crowley, isn’t it.”

And Crowley never expected it to hurt, that Antonia had been cut from Aziraphale’s vocabulary, that she was Crowley to everyone now. The urge to wrench the car around and aim for the east nearly overpowered her. 

“Yes,” Anges said. Careful. So careful.

“Tell her I say hello,” Aziraphale said. “Tell her I look forward to her next letter.”

The venom in Aziraphale’s voice made Crowly hang up. She wiped the tears from her cheek as Gemma leaned toward her, her eyes red and watery. “Fuck ‘em, babe. It’s you and me. We’re the only family we need.”

“Right,” Crowley said, forcing a smile. “Right.”


	5. Gemma

Aziraphale’s phone rang and rang into the night as she catalogued the books in her shop. With a grumble, she emerged from the back room, setting down tomes of prophecy, ancient grimoires, and the latest celebrity memoir on the antique desk. She frowned at the unknown number, wondered if it was the aunts, who were out of town for the week at a witchy retreat, and finally answered. Worry balled in her gut. “Yes, hello?”

“Aziraphale. We need to talk.”

“Crowley?”

“Yes. None other.” Suddenly, she sounded small. Scared. “Angel, can you come get me?” 

Aziraphale’s coat was already on as she opened her laptop, ready to buy a flight anywhere. Anywhere in the whole world. 

“Where are you?”

“Philadelphia.” 

***

A thousand dollars later, Aziraphale landed in the city and hailed a taxi. She showed the driver the address for the motel and knew it was a shit hole by the way the driver’s lip curled. This deep into the night, the streets were empty of traffic. She had one credit card on her, some balled up cash in her camel-colored peacoat, and enough terror to be confused with bravery as she pounded on the door of the motel. It creaked open with the force of her knock. Unlocked. She finally pushed her way inside when no one answered. 

The room was dark, the shades drawn. An unmade queen bed stood in the middle. Clothes were strewn on the floor. A half-eaten container of Chinese food filled the room with the smell of sweet and sour pork. “Crowley?” she whispered and stepped inside, accidentally kicking a bottle of tipped over tequila.

“Hi.” Crowley stood up from the far corner behind the bed, as if she’d been hiding. With shaking hands, she pushed her long red hair behind her ear and Aziraphale saw it, the mark of purple and swollen red around her eye. A flash of shocked anger flared through Aziraphale that someone had dared to lay a violent hand on Crowley. “Come here,” Aziraphale commanded and Crowley nearly tripped over the mussed sheets to get into her arms. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Crowley said, sounding broken, her grip so tight Aziraphale almost couldn’t breathe. “It’s like I can’t leave the room. She told me not to go anywhere, and I…Aziraphale, it’s like I can’t leave the room.”

“We can,” Aziraphale said firmly, noting the short shimmery black dress barely covering Crowley, the too-tall heels that seemed to hinder her more than anything else. It had been years and yet it felt like they were back under the bushes in the garden: Crowley a terrified shivering creature magicked into a new shape, and Aziraphale holding her hand out, praying for trust. “We’re going home. Where’s your stuff?”

“Here,” Crowley said, reluctant to break the embrace, but she did and turned, kicked stray shoes and lace undies out of the way to grab the army green duffle and a black purse sitting by the door. Already packed. As if she’d been waiting. “I don’t understand it. All I wanted was to get a coffee. Gemma said it was too late, that I couldn’t have one. And I was like, yes, I can have a coffee if I want, I’m not thirteen, and then she said if I went to get coffee I’d just be going to to hit on the barista, and I told her how insane that sounded, how fucking crazy, could she hear herself? and then she forbid me from leaving the room and she hit me. She hit me real hard. Bitch.”

Crowley leaned against Aziraphale as she tottered out of the room, pointing to the vintage car in the lot. The blood moon cast a red glow over the black paint. “I’m driving,” Aziraphale said, and felt the cold press of keys in her hands. Crowley let go of her arm, and went to the back seat of the car, threw her army bag inside. Aziraphale followed, just behind, and picked through the silver keys. Her brows came together in confusion. “Crowley, which one is the car key?”

She looked up into the backseat at Crowley’s quiet gasp, and saw an unknown woman grinning at her, her arms holding Crowley still as she balanced a knife against Crowley’s neck. 

“You drive,” Gemma said. 

***

The street lights shone few and far between the farther they drove from the city. The knife glinted in the rearview mirror like a flickering star and helpless fury fueled Aziraphale’s soul. She’d never felt violence like this before, the need to defend and protect so intently before. At the same time, she’d never felt so helpless.

“You know, your girlfriend is really fucked up,” Gemma drawled. Aziraphale watched as the woman gathered Crowley closer into her arms, an arm strung across her chest, the knife playing at her neck. “Are you the chick from the coffeeshop? Did she call you, her white knight, crying about the punishment she deserved?”

“Gemma—” Crowley croaked. 

“Am I talking to you?” Gemma snarled, her hazel eyes shooting up to study Aziraphale. They spoke through mirrors, and Aziraphale flickered between the dark pass of blacktop spreading beneath the Bentley’s wheels, to the yellow shine of Crowley’s eyes, to the white teeth of Gemma. 

“She’s so naughty all the time,” Gemma continued, and Aziraphale dug her teeth into her lip. She clenched the steering wheel so hard she felt like she dented the leather. In the mirror, Gemma angled the knife away from Crowley’s jugular, pulled out something that clinked. 

“You hurt her—” Aziraphale started.

“She likes being hurt,” Gemma said, taking a swig out of a glass bottle and then laughed in delight. The smell of tequila made Aziraphale’s nose scrunch up in distaste. “She lets me do anything to her. This is her favorite part of the games we play.” 

Aziraphale watched as Gemma spanned her hand around Crowley’s neck, buckled and snapped a collar around the long slender pillar. Gemma wrenched on a leash with another laugh, this one more manic, and Aziraphale heard Crowley wheeze, as if she was strangling, as if—

“Hey, hey, hey, what are you, what the fuck—” and Aziraphale swerved, the car careening to the side as she reached back one-handed and slapped Gemma, who screamed, “Watch the road, watch the road!” 

Crowley gasped, “Angel,” and Gemma laughed again, this time more unhinged, but at least the sound of Crowley’s ragged breathing filled the space again. Aziraphale righted the car, saw Crowley give her a slight nod in the mirror— _I’m okay_.

“Phew!” Gemma said, letting out a disbelieving laugh like she’d just gotten off a rollercoaster. “You know ladies, I’m feeling very into both of you right now.” She tapped the tequila bottle against Aziraphale’s shoulder in offering. Aziraphale yanked it out of her hand, took a good long swig that tasted like gasoline, and realized she was crying, that the terror inside her had morphed into something deadly. Give her the chance, she would kill Gemma. She would go to prison her whole life if it meant ensuring that woman would never be around Crowley again. This she knew with deadly certainty. 

“You bitch, you goddamn bitch,” she said, realizing she was muttering. “Treating her like a pitbull? You’re treating her like she’s a goddamn thing?. She made it sound like you loved her.”

Gemma pulled Crowley close, stroked Crowley’s hair. “I do. We’re good together, we’ve lasted so long. All my other dogs died. Bad behavior, you see.”

The deadliness inside Aziraphale pulled on the magic sleeping in her bloodstream. When she looked up at Crowely in the mirror, she saw the serpent’s essence lean forward, shining like an eclipse, and whispered, “The belladonna. It’s in my bag.”

Aziraphale nodded in complete understanding. Her hand snuck into the purse for the vial, but Gemma kicked out in the backseat, snarling, “Eyes on the road.”

Aziraphale slid the vial out, dumped all of the crushed black powder of sleep and poison into the tequila, telling the alcohol to mix and swirl. Her hands shook, some landed on her legs, on the seat, but she couldn’t see and it didn’t matter, just as long as they got Gemma to drink it. Then, Gemma would pass out and they could be rid of her and go home—

A quiet choked sound. Aziraphale snapped her eyes back up to the mirror. Gemma had turned to face Crowley, stroking her cheek with the leash tight in her hands. Crowley scrambled at the choke chain cutting into her neck. “Bad behavior,” Gemma said sadly, “means punishment.”

“Don’t do this, baby,” Crowley wheezed out. “Baby, I love you, I love you.” The words shot from her mouth as if they were bullets, as if she thought the term would leave Gemma bleeding, but nothing happened. Crowley’s eyes widened in panic. “I lov—” 

Voice cut off with a croak. Her face took on a reddish-blue sheen. 

Time slowed for Aziraphale. Her foot slammed on the brake. The car swerved and skidded on the pavement, nearly rolling. Gemma and Crowley slammed forward in a tumble of limbs. Aziraphale’s forehead sprung off the steering wheel, but the tequila bottle felt like a sword in her hands, one lit with the gasoline of agave, and power flowed from her heart into her arms as she whipped around. The bottle shattered against Gemma’s head and the woman slumped, a gush of blood pouring down her face. Glass coated the air, thin as glitter, shimmering in the blood moon’s light, and Aziraphale barely dodged back in time as a huge black snake struck from the car’s darkness, fangs sinking deep into Gemma’s neck. 

Gemma whimpered. Her eyes rolled up in the back of her head. The snake’s throat pulsed once and then she wrenched away, coiling at the bottom of the backseat. Adrenaline coursed through Aziraphale, enough that her normally shaking hands were steady. The dog collar had been abandoned on the seat. Crowley must have transformed as soon as she felt her life tunneling, just as Aziraphale slammed on the brakes. Aziraphale draped over her seat, her arms dangling down toward the snake. Crowley hissed, the black gleam of her coils tightening as if ready to strike, but Aziraphale didn’t pull away. Just dangled her arms. The flicker of a tongue rattled against her fingers to taste, and then the sudden weight slithered up her arms until Crowley draped around her neck. 

Aziraphale faced forward and settled back into her seat, heavy with a serpent that undulated and bunched and coiled around her. Blood coated Aziraphale’s fingers—from her own forehead and from glass slivers that had cut Crowley’s scales. The Bentley’s engine smoked, but when Aziraphale eased it into drive, it coughed and rumbled back on the empty highway, heading north. “Good car,” she muttered. The rush of magic began to ease away from her. She let out a shaking breath, reached up to run a hand down Crowley’s sleek scales. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I got you. We’re safe.”

Crowley’s diamond-shaped head nudged against her neck, buried under her shirt to lie along her shoulder. Behind her, she heard Gemma give a pained wheeze, as if her throat was closing up, and grim satisfaction seeped through Aziraphale.

***

At some point, when driving felt like being sucked into a black tunnel with no end in sight, Aziraphale began to talk. The earthquake of fear over the last few hours had rattled her mansion of lonely, leaving deep cracks snaking through its concrete foundation, even letting fresh air drift through its cracked windows. What was there to lose? If she didn’t give her lonely thoughts a voice, they’d continue to haunt her, overwhelm her with things like _should’ve_ and _could’ve_. Maybe, finally, closure could be found. But to do that, she had to start at the beginning.

“You know my mom killed herself. It’s one of my first memories,” Aziraphale said softly, her hand still stroking the smooth grain of Crowley’s scales. The serpent stilled around her. 

Aziraphale swallowed hard, but the hardest part was beginning, and she had the words, now. “The worst part was I never knew why she did it. I remember her kissing me, saying she loved me, and that was going to take a nap. I played with my dolls, watched television, but at some point I realized I’d been alone for too long. I eased into her room, found her in her bed. She’d taken pills. Cast a spell on herself so she wouldn’t throw up, that she’d be silent. She looked like she was sleeping. I curled up next to her, pulled a blanket over us because she felt so cold. We stayed like that together until the aunts broke the door open with the police in tow. I hid under the bathroom sink. It smelled like my mom’s mousse and perfume, tampons scattered among the toilet paper. I cried as they coaxed me out, but they wouldn’t let me back in the bedroom to see her. After the funeral, Tracy said my mother loved me very much. But see, that’s the problem. If she loved me so much, why wasn’t I enough to stay? If she loved me that much, why didn’t she take me to the aunts first before taking the pills?”

Crowley shifted over Aziraphale’s shoulders, slunk off, and slithered into the passenger seat. Aziraphale’s hand stayed at her heart where she’d been touching Crowley, now feeling the furious beat beneath her palm. A sting of magic filled the car, and Crowley transformed back into a woman. 

Her black sheath dress barely covered her bruised thighs. One strap slipped off the sharp shelf of her shoulder. Her red hair looked a mess, cascading across the angry purple bruise cutting across her neck. All those clothes felt like little lies, like fishing wire stringing Crowley to Gemma. The Crowley of Aziraphale’s youth would never be foot-bound by tottering five inch stilettos that bent her feet like a ballerina’s. The Crowley Aziraphale knew would never showcase her slim body in a piece of black gauze so short that she’d have to amputate her swagger into tiny hip rolls so as to not flash anyone. Crowley loved sexy, sure, but this felt like a farce. 

Aziraphale’s throat made a click as the chime inside her rang—only this time, it was the war cry of battle, of a hundred clashing swords to protect. She tore her gaze away from Crowley and focused on the road. If she looked into those golden eyes again, she knew she’d break and the rest of her story wouldn’t come out, the truth wouldn’t be admitted to. 

“I didn’t understand my mother until Sally died. I hurt so much that it almost became a cruelty. I thought that if I hurt myself, killed myself, I’d want you to know first. I’d want you to find me. I’d want my hurt to hurt you, for you to carry that weight until it crushed you like it did me. Because, in my mind, you left me like my mother did. Just like the aunts did when they…mind controlled Sally to fall in love with me.” Her voice broke. Shattered things composed her life, the glass in the car, the glass in her throat. “You didn’t come when I called. You wouldn’t talk to me. You’d speak to everyone but me. Yet, when we wrote, I felt like I was your whole world. As if, it wasn’t our choices keeping us apart, it was something grand like a war or immigration restrictions. I realized that maybe the aunts had bewitched even you to be my friend, that at some point you broke the spell and that’s why you set up these boundaries between us.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a watery smile, but Crowley remained impassive, her face blank.

 _I guess that hypothesis won’t be confirmed._ Aziraphale took a deep breath and continued, “My point is that I think my mother wanted me to have her hurt. To teach me how all love ends. But I…I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to think that you were forced to be my friend. So, can you tell me, truly, why you won’t speak to me? I need to know because…well, to know will be worse, but at least it’s clean.”

Silence filled the car, like the calm before the storm. Crowley remained unnaturally still, as if trying to camouflage herself with the car seats. Aziraphale’s heart twisted and the manifested pain in her side became near unbearable. This silence was the worst outcome: that Crowley wouldn’t tell her, that Crowley would let her stew, that silence was actually a yes, and all of Aziraphale’s thoughts were true.

The loneliness shuddered through her, and Aziraphale felt like she might actually be sick. The silence stretched, something that would drive her insane, just as the loneliness would kill her. Aziraphale reasoned wildly that she shouldn’t be surprised that her honesty wasn’t worth honesty in return. She strangled the anxious queries trying to escape her mouth, _So how’s it going, how’s life, how are you feeling, what are you thinking…_ “I do like that you have all my albums, though,” she said, instead—she had to do something, say something—and reached down to touch the CD jewel cases. She always liked her Christmas album, the one where she wore a Rosemary Clooney gown of white and red, and lounged on a settee with mistletoe above her. _Please, God, get me out of this silence before I break._

Like a beacon of hope, the industrial lights of a gas station blinked up ahead. A quick glance downward gave Aziraphale another small miracle: the gas guzzler Bentley was near empty. 

Aziraphale pulled up at the pump, cut the engine, and fiercely told her loneliness that even if Crowely didn’t love her—that she’d been forced to love her—that facts were still facts: Aziraphale’s love for Crowley was real and sometimes, love wasn’t about reciprocation. Love was about taking care of your beloved in all forms. Aziraphale reached behind her to yank Crowley’s duffle out from under the twitching Gemma. The woman still lived—Aziraphale had no idea if Crowley was venomous or not—and if Gemma survived the trip back to the house, Aziraphale needed to form a plan.

She shook the glass off the army green bag, plopped it next to Crowley. She gestured to the huge Exxon. “Might be a good idea to clean up. Change into something you want to wear, if you’d like. I’ll get the gas.” There wasn’t much else to do but open the door, pop the gas can open, get some kind of mental high-five from life when her credit was approved. She blinked back a sudden wash of tears. She couldn’t participate in a conversation of one, but at least her story had air, now. At least Crowley could understand the backstory of her hurt, her fury, her actions. At least Crowley could understand Aziraphale, if she wished to.

She tried not to stare as Crowley walked into the Exxon. She tried very hard.

***

Crowley emerged wearing long black flared trousers, a lace bralette, and a sharp shouldered suit jacket. She dumped the heels in a trash can, flipped the tight plait she’d braided her hair into over her shoulder, and threw a twenty on the counter for a pair of star-shaped framed sunglasses and snacks. She opened the driver’s side door, saw Aziraphale hunched and exhausted over the wheel, and said, “Scootch.”

The angel complied, sliding over the bench seat to the passenger side. Crowley tossed a plastic bag full of bottled water and gummy worms between them and Aziraphale cracked the seal on the bottle immediately, her throat undulating as she swallowed great gulps.

The Bentley started up with a growl, pleased to have its owner back at the helm. Crowley glanced over her shoulder at Gemma, who had begun convulsing. Crowley’s face remained impassive. The Bently slid over the blacktop, the engine revved, and Crowley’s lips curled to show a bit of fang. She felt Aziraphale’s stare. The tension radiating off of her cut Crowley like a knife.

“So.” Crowley’s voice sounded rough and she cleared it, tried again. “So. Here’s the deal.”

“I’m all ears,” Aziraphale said, breathless, as if anything Crowley said should be transcribed into gospel.

Crowley shot her a look telling her to shut up, this was hard enough. “When my parents died, we were on vacation. Beautiful sunny South Carolina. I was building a sand castle. My mother looked up into the sun where my dad was showing her a handful of shells he’d collected. She smiled, and said I love you to him. He said it back as one usually does. That’s when the curse attacked.”

Aziraphale uttered a soft sound of questioning, and Crowley stuck her arms out straight, putting strain on her elbows. Hecate, this was the hardest thing she’d ever done. “The curse isn’t like…a virus. Or a bacteria. It doesn’t show up out of nowhere. It isn’t airborne, or infectious. It’s a huge black creature. I see it all the time. It howls and growls and paces. Its eyes glow like starlight.. It tore my mother’s throat out. It gutted my father with a swipe of its claws. It tried to get me too, but it was reluctant and I figured out”—and here Crowley tapped her temple—“that it was because I didn’t say it. I didn’t say that I loved them. So it spared me.”

Aziraphale’s baby blues filled her whole face, the silken sheen of her curls in a mop tucked behind her ears. This was the story she’d begged to hear from the time the Fell women took Crowley in. Crowley ground her teeth, heard them squeak. But Aziraphale deserved to know. 

Crowley never buried her mistakes, she left them behind her like roadkill, smashed and twisted, rotting in the sun on a piece of pavement she’d never look back on. But now, turning around to look into the sun, she finally saw the damage, the way she’d broken the bones of Aziraphale’s fortitude into a mess of insecurity and doubt. 

_I don’t want to think that you were forced to be my friend._ Ah, fuck, shit, goddamnit worthless cunt, she was. That her absence had made Aziraphale think she’d…goddamn it, magically mind-controlled and manipulated Crowely. Aziraphale felt unwarranted guilt and if Crowley ever did anything in her life right, it would be this. To correct this...misunderstanding.

“That curse followed me. It followed me when I became a snake and escaped into a family’s house. It followed me from that brown bag I’d been caught and shoved into, and then into the aunts’ house. And as we grew up, it got closer and hungrier. I couldn’t leave the house without seeing it stalking the edge of the treeline, invisible to everyone but me. And I thought—what if I slipped? What if I told the aunts—you know, what if I said those words to them? Aziraphale, what if I said them to you? I wouldn’t survive it, if you died because of me. And it was getting so hard not to say it. So, I decided to leave everything that made me want to say it—you, the aunts, fucking Coupeville. The curse didn’t go away, not fully or all at once, but when I met Gemma, it disappeared completely. I didn’t see it for years and I could—listen to your albums without it howling at me. Before, I couldn’t even listen to voicemails without feeling the hot breath on my neck.” Crowley stared at the road without blinking until her vision blurred. “If I even heard your voice in real time—I wouldn’t be strong enough. I knew it.”

Aziraphale unbuckled her seatbelt and slipped closer, her arms rising as if to surround Crowley. Crowley put her shoulder up in defense. Aziraphale’s hands fell.

“I thought the curse was gone, that Gemma had been strong enough to defeat it.” Crowley fully bared her teeth, felt the years on her back, felt the sob rise inside her chest. “But now I see that it left because…because I hated her. I hated myself. I hated my life. And I see now that I’d rather deal with fucking damnation than be without you. Besides, it would sound so much better to be killed by a mysterious black arts curse than to be m-m-murdered by your abusive girlfriend, you know?”

“I’m going to hug you now,” Aziraphale said. Crowley didn’t get the chance to respond, simply felt Aziraphale crush her shoulders into her massive boobs and camel-colored peacoat. Blonde hair tickled Crowley’s cheeks and stuck to the tears slipping past the sunglasses.

“I’m better with you,” Crowley choked out. “You didn’t force anything on me. I always want to be with you. I know you worry that Sally’s love might have started off with a spell, but those things don’t stick long-term, you know? She loved you. True love. You’re the best fucking thing in this whole world, angel. Everything that’s not you is just…eh, its trash, really.”

“We’re better together,” Aziraphale whispered in her ear. Crowley’s tongue darted out, tasted salt on her lips, tasted it on the air, and she knew Aziraphale cried, too. 

Gemma moaned in pain. Aziraphale pulled back a touch, still laid her cheek on the jut of Crowley’s suit jacket. 

Stupid bitch, that Gemma. Trying to ruin this, too. “Should just leave her on the side of the road,” Crowley snarled. “Let her die in the elements.”

Aziraphale shook her head, blonde curls sticking up all over. “I want to close up any loops we have with her. I have a plan I think you’ll approve of.” She nudged her way under Crowley’s arm and settled in the crook there. Crowley pulled her close, put her chin against Aziraphale’s temple.

Crowley smiled into the darkness, grateful for this, that even if Hecate had given her a bloodline curse, at least she’d also gifted her an angel to watch over her.


	6. Scrambled Eggs

“You owe me big time,” Aziraphale said, as her arms tightened around Gemma’s torso, the woman’s short brunette head lolling against her shoulder. 

“S’nice they built that bridge.” Crowley struggled with Gemma’s legs, holding them like she would the handles of a wheelbarrow. She shot Aziraphale a toothy grin. “Makes the drive time a lot faster. Don’t feel so island-trapped, now.”

“With the way you steer that machine of death, I don’t think the bridge is the thing that helped our  _ drive time _ ,” Aziraphale huffed, fighting to keep her miffed composure instead of matching Crowley’s grin. It felt good to be back together. The air between them had cleared, and yet was charged with...Hecate, a kind of attractive electricity. They’d slotted back into old habits and jokes, something that Aziraphale had yearned for so keenly. She tried not to be so happy with a comatose and clearly ill woman in her arms. Tried not to read into it when Crowley had used the bottled water and her sleeve to mop the blood off Aziraphale’s forehead, cleaning up the cut from where her face had hit the steering wheel.

She shoved the front door open with her hip and navigated toward the kitchen table where the aunts cast their spells. No purple tablecloth draped over the worn wood, no pageantry here. Together, they lifted Gemma onto the table and Aziraphale felt concern zip through her as Gemma twitched and fluttered red-rimmed eyes as if in a fever. “Lucky for us, the aunts are out of town until tomorrow, so it’s now or never,” Aziraphale said. She could only imagine what the aunts would think, seeing the two of them arrive like this, defiling their altar in such a way. 

“Thank Hecate for small miracles,” Crowley said, stretching her arms up toward the ceiling, her torso a too-long line, and if there were too many ribs poking out of her ribcage, Aziraphale didn’t mind. “Not much has changed here. Looks the same. Smells the same. Feels like home.”

“Yes, consistency is a common trait in the Fell women. Let’s hope that Tracy keeps her flask in the same place, too.” Aziraphale licked the tip of her finger and flipped through Agnes’ grimoire, searching for the spell for forgetfulness. “You’ll need to take her shirt off,” she told Crowley, inclining her head towards Gemma.

Crowley nodded and unbuttoned Gemma’s shirt. With a pair of scissors, she cut Gemma’s tank top down the middle to her navel. Crowley’s soft tone drifted through the room and Aziraphale pretended to pay attention to the grimoire, instead of to what Crowley was saying to the dying woman.

“Gemma,” Crowley whispered in a low, angry voice, “because of the grace of an angel you’ll be getting out of this alive, but we are definitely broken up. It’s over.” She slapped Gemma across the face with a small hiss of satisfaction. “You’re a terrible human being and I wish we’d never met!”

A bubble of laughter lodged in Aziraphale’s throat. “What are you doing?” she asked, as she reached up to gather the spell ingredients: flowers, crystal, herbs, and stone.

“Making sure my point gets across,” Crowley said, twisting away as if embarrassed at being caught, but playing it cool. “You’re sure this spell will work?”

“I’m not an expert, Crowley. It’s complicated, but we’re both strong witches.”

“Stronger than Tracy, at least. Maybe I should do a tarot spread, make sure we have blessings of the lesser gods.” Crowley chuckled and Aziraphale let out a long-suffering sigh and handed her a set of wide bowls and bushels of dried pink flowers. “Crush these into powder and then light them with a match,” Aziraphale instructed.

“Pushy,” Crowley said.

They worked in silence, Aziraphale outlining Gemma’s chest with whipped cream in the shape of a star—the best substitute she could find for white quartz chalk. Crowley dabbed her finger in it and put the digit to her mouth, the cream melting over her forked tongue. 

“You’re a terror,” Aziraphale said primly, turning back to lay the crystal and obsidian around Gemma’s body—something to do with the chakras; Aziraphale would have to go back and study the spell in greater detail later. Make notes. She had quite the collection of dark arts tomes secured away in her bookshop and she was curious if anyone else had used the spell in the way she intended. 

“Whatever, you like it.” Crowley lit the flowers, sending a soft golden smoke rising from the dishes. “You like me, too.”

“Don’t.”

“You  _ do _ .”

“Can you roll your R’s with a tongue like that?”

Crowley tried, and ended up hissing everywhere. 

“No, like this,” Aziraphale said, doing a soft purr at her.

“I’m not a cat, angel.”

“Not a very good one. Definitely an alley cat, if I had to guess. I’ll do the roll, you do the incantation. You’ll, ah, you’ll have to use this.” Aziraphale handed Crowley a long silver pin, something like a hat pin or stake. 

“What exactly am I doing with this?” Crowley asked, taking the pin from Aziraphale tentatively.

“I infuse the tongue roll—Crowley, really, please pay attention, stop eating the whipped cream—with my magic, it's supposed to replicate the lull of the sea, the meditation of memory. You have to invoke Hecate with the incantation, ask her for the gift of power to complete the spell—”

“I know how witchcraft works, Aziraphale.”

“—and then you have to stick the pin in Gemma’s pupil.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, lobotomy-style. Scramble it a little, like eggs.”

“And it's because of my unusual tongue that means this part is my responsibility?” 

“Well, no…I figured you wouldn’t be able to do the tongue roll to begin with, I just didn’t want you to feel bad about it. Honestly you’d have to do the scrambling part anyway, it’s symbolic. You’re erasing yourself from her mind, so push hard, I hear there’s resistance.” Aziraphale made a motion as if using a hammer. “They used to use an ice pick.”

“You’re an utter bastard,” Crowley said, pushing her star sunglasses up on top of her head, the above chandelier catching the purple swelling around her eye. “Will she be…brain dead?”

“Does it matter?”

“I mean, a little.” Crowley fidgeted. “For my conscience's sake.”

“No?” 

“Good enough, Captain. Begin the rolling sea.”

Aziraphale held her hands out, palms up, as if in offering, letting her tongue flutter against her palate, and felt the warm embrace of magic rush from her heart out to her hands. The smoke filled her body. She imagined the blue-green waters of the Atlantic, the soothing crash of it sweeping over sand, how it could fill in her footsteps and wash them away. Gemma began to jerk in small, contained spasms, whatever poison rushing through her combined with the concussion creating veins of red running over her cheeks and down her throat. 

“Black as night, erase this light from her sight,” Crowley said slowly, reading the incantation from the grimoire. “White as light, mighty Hecate make it right. Black as night, erase this memory from her sight.”

Crowley’s repetition took on a drone-like tone, and her own magic suffused through the room, a kind of red heat that clashed with the glow of Aziraphale’s power. The roll took up inside the words, rushing to gather every memory of Crowley in Gemma’s mind floating like cotton, bringing those soft tufts together to weave a blank slate. Aziraphale found herself moving closer to the thrashing woman, catching the golden glaze of Crowley’s slitted eyes across from her, the power like an electric jolt binding them together. 

Aziraphale cupped Gemma’s skull, keeping her head still with a strength she didn’t know she possessed. The silver pin inched closer and closer to Gemma’s pupil as Crowley chanted. As if on command, Aziraphale peeled Gemma’s eyelids back, studied the blown pupil flickering back and forth. The incantation flowed over her, through her, and Crowley struck true, the pin sliding into the middle of that sea of black with guided pressure. Crowley wiggled the pin back and forth, and withdrew carefully. 

Gemma collapsed, as if all the air in her body had been vacuumed out. The red veins along her skin throbbed and began to melt away. The spell left Aziraphale without warning, like a flame doused in water. Across from her, Crowley looked white as a sheet, her huge eyes blinking at Aziraphale as if emerging from a haze. 

A drop of blood slid down Gemma’s face like a tear. She blinked and sat up. “Where am I?” she asked softly, and the abuser was gone, replaced with a girl soft with amnesia. 

“You got in a bad car accident,” Aziraphale said quietly, leaning closer and giving Gemma her best matronly look. “Hit your head. Might have gotten into a scrape with a wild animal. Do you know your name?”

Gemma shook her head, her hand inching up to finger the gash made by a tequila bottle. “I don’t remember anything.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered to Crowley. “That’s alright, dear.”

“Listen closely,” Crowley whispered, the smell of temptation in the air, as she slid up along Gemma’s side. “You’ll need to walk into town. You’ll need to go to the hospital for care. And then, you’ll need to get on the ferry and never come back to Massachusetts ever again. There are snakes here, serpents that might hurt you.”

Gemma’s eyes went wide with fear. “You’re right. I can’t stay here. I have to leave as soon as possible.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Aziraphale said, helping Gemma down from the kitchen and leading her out the door. “Remember not to tell the hospital workers about who found you, we don’t know anything useful.”

“Thank you for helping me. There is good in this world, strangers helping strangers.” Gemma jogged off the porch and sprinted past the Bentley. Aziraphale watched her, careful to keep her in sight until the darkness swallowed her. Crowley hunched against the doorframe, her slender body seeming to fit in the spaces around Aziraphale without exactly touching. “You think it worked?” she asked.

“Of course it did,” Aziraphale said, taking in a deep breath of fresh night air tinged with the rush of success. “Didn’t you feel our power?”

Crowley grinned at her. “Couldn’t fucking believe it, to be honest.”

“The only question we really have to worry about is whether you’re venomous in snake form or not.”

The smile faded from Crowley’s lips as they both turned to see Gemma, like a white specter in the night, get to the edge of the lane and topple over. 

***

“Sweet Hecate, I think she fucking croaked.”

“Inconvenient,” Aziraphale said, her hands on her knees as she bent over, out of breath. They’d both sprinted toward the crumbled figure, with Crowley being the swifter of the two. Crowley looked at her with panic and crouched before the collapsed woman, fingers splayed across her throat seeking a pulse.

“We have to throw her into the ocean,” Crowley said, her gentle mouth sharpening into a line. “We have to get rid of the body.”

“She might wash up somewhere and then it’d become a murder investigation. Wouldn’t be hard to link you two together. Then what would we say? That we poisoned her with venom, cracked her skull open in self-defense? Do you think anyone would believe us?”

“Fuck,” Crowley hissed.

“Does she have family? Other friends? People that might come looking?”

Crowley shook her head, steepled her fingers under her chin. “Not that I know of. It was mostly just her and me, moving from place to place.”

“We can bury her, then.” Aziraphale turned, canvassed the property for a place that wouldn’t be noticed, that the aunts wouldn’t pinpoint.

“Under the rose bushes.” Crowley gnawed her lip, inclined her head toward the trellis. “It has to be deep. A little symbolic, since you’re so fond of shit like that.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured. “It’s where I found you the first time, and reclaimed you the second.” Power throbbed along Aziraphale’s veins, like a shine catching on a spiderweb. You wouldn’t know it was there, until the light illuminated it, showing you its weave, the expansive net of it.  _ Help me, _ she prayed to God and Hecate.  _ Part the ground like you parted the seas.  _

Aziraphale brought her hands together, as if in prayer, and then pushed them apart, felt resistance against the back of her palms. Underneath the trellis, the earth opened up, a crevice deep into the layers of the earth. 

“Holy shit, Aziraphale—”

“There,” Aziraphale said, and again the power whooshed out of her, like a dam finally finding an opening to flood through. She wobbled, felt Crowley’s hands grab her arm. “I think that will do it. You take her head this time.”

Aziraphale lifted Gemma’s limp legs, and could it be the woman was heavier? They shuffled to the new grave as a soft rain began to fall on them, as if Aziraphale had parted the skies too to make the clouds weep. They pushed Gemma over the edge, and it was as if the woman fell from earth to hell, landing in a cradle of dark rich soil and deep-crust sand. Aziraphale pushed her hands together and the ground obeyed, the dirt falling over Gemma’s body until it was as though she had never existed. 

Aziraphale swayed, landed on her knees. The world twisted in and out of blackness, and the power dove deep inside her, out of reach. Warm hands wandered over her back and she realized Crowley called her name over and over in soft, worried tones. 

“How did I ever think you were a better lesbian than me?” Aziraphale slurred, feeling weak, as if coming off of a bender. “You have the worst taste in women.”

She expected Crowley to laugh, offer a sharp retort in response, but instead she felt those hands bring her into a crushing embrace. “Thank you, angel,” Crowley whispered, lips brushing her ear, holding her close. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale whispered. “Always.”

Crowley helped her stand. Arms around each other, they staggered back into their ancient home. Inside, the lights gave off a welcoming glow and Aziraphale thought how she’d kill to cuddle up in bed with hot chocolate and a good book—but then, oh wait, she had. The laugh inside her felt slightly hysterical. She turned to tell Crowley, but Crowley paused in the doorway, her head cocked as if hearing something, and the look on her face said it was more distressing than murder. 

***

Insomnia had haunted Aziraphale since she was young, keeping her tossing and turning and catching longed for moments of unconsciousness in fast twenty minute intervals. The creak of her bedroom door opening dragged her from the unknown deep-sea of sleep, a quiet and dark so encompassing Aziraphale was momentarily disoriented. A soft dawn had begun to creep through the windows, the night just a little bit lighter than before. A figure lingered in the doorway. Aziraphale sat up fully, muttered, “Crowley?”

The figure eased inside the room, limbs jerking closer to the bed. Crowley’s face, torn with anxiety and indecision, filled Aziraphale’s visage. ‘Ssswrong?” Aziraphale asked, feeling as if the room was already too bright, feeling a kind of exhaustion pull at her that she’d never felt before. As if using too much magic had cut new trenches in the mud of her skin, made new veins to flow through her. Crowley had had to help her up the stairs, tuck her into bed. It was as though the magic had taken all her Aziraphale’s strength.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Crowley asked, and her head cocked to the side, as if listening. She exhaled a shaky breath.

“Of course,” Aziraphale murmured, and lifted the blankets, scooting over to make room for the slender woman. Crowley slipped into bed, tucked her cold feet against Aziraphale’s shins. “Is it the curse?” she asked. 

Crowley nodded, her eyes a slice of bronze. “It’s far away, but it's getting closer. I haven’t heard it in a while, gave me quite the turn.” She tried to smile, but it looked pained. Aziraphale pulled her close, tugged the sheet over their heads so they were cocooned in a space full of them and their breath. There’d been too much terror experienced by them both in such a short timespan. Crowley had been abused, nearly killed, had bravely called Aziraphale for help--and now, the curse began to terrorize her, again? It was too much. Aziraphale’s instinct to protect snarled and reared up, lifted its wing to cover the serpent. She couldn’t imagine what she would’ve found if she’d gotten to that hotel room one hour later, if she hadn’t answered the phone. “We’ll ward the house tomorrow,” Aziraphale said. “You’ll be safe.”

“Won’t do much,” Crowley said, her voice soft and small. Lost. “Never does.”

“But it’s something,” Aziraphale said. “The aunts will be back, too. We can ask them what to do. It’ll be like every other normal day.”

“Okay, sure. Get up. Make coffee. Put on my mascara. Die under a generational curse.”

“The first thing you’re gonna do is get up and brush your damn teeth because your breath stinks.”

Crowley covered her mouth to stifle her laugh.  _ “Angel.” _

“And use mouthwash.” Aziraphale’s heart eased. “We’ll figure it out together this time.”

A wet sheen covered Crowley’s eyes, her mouth half-parted and trembling. “Angel,” she began and then swallowed, as if the words couldn’t get out. Aziraphale’s hand rested on Crowley’s bare waist where her tank top rode up, her fingers gliding gently over the smooth skin, touching like she’d always wanted to, taking the small calculated risks she’d always dreamed of. “Angel,” Crowley tried again. “Can I kiss you?”

Aziraphale closed the distance between them, sliding her lips over Crowley’s, tasting the leftover sweetness of gummy worms. Crowley opened for her, and slid her tongue against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale slanted, made the kiss deeper, tilted Crowley’s jaw with her fingers, until Crowley uttered a soft moan. Aziraphale thumbed the sharp jut of Crowley’s hip against her low rise pajama pants, and Crowley pressed closer, filling all of Aziraphle’s space with her angles and long lines. They fell apart naturally and Crowley pushed Aziraphale’s curls off her forehead, looked at her as if she’d made the world.

“I missed you so much,” Crowley murmured. “Do you have any idea, any idea. I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you, drenched in the rain and giving me your stupid hoodie.”

“God, Crowley, me too, at some point you wore this sexy tee, it rode up so I could see the dimples in your back—”

“I have back dimples?”

“To go with your front ones.” Aziraphale touched the indent in Crowley’s cheeks. “I wanted you so bad. You broke my heart when you left, you know.” She shushed Crowley’s small sound of distress. “But that’s all in the past, darling. Now, sleep, my dear, tomorrow will be a much better day.”

Crowley’s blinks had already begun to become long and she slithered in Aziraphale’s arms, turning until her back was pressed to Aziraphale’s front, drawing all of Aziraphale’s limbs tight around her. She smelled like smoke, a touch of heat, the old leather scent of car, and Aziraphale drifted off, her arms full.


	7. Mid-Day Margaritas and Mugwort

"I haven’t seen them in years.” Crowley bit her nails, tasting the lacquer of fresh paint, three coats hastily applied, quickly hardened under a hair dryer. “What if they decided they don’t like me anymore?” She glanced out the window, watching Agnes and Tracy stumble out of the car, laden with packages and suitcases. Agnes looked the same—long dark hair near to her waist, gray dress with sensible pockets—but Tracy had changed her hair color from tabby cat orange to platinum blonde as if to mimic Aziraphale. Tracy turned, and a grin broke across Crowley’s face as she saw familiar blue eyeshadow up to Tracy’s plucked eyebrows. Tracy stuck her bright pink gloved hands in the pockets of her ghastly wallpaper-mimic-patterned poncho and sighed in happiness, her mouth painted tickle-me-pink.

Aziraphale hooked her chin on Crowley’s shoulder. “They’ll be endlessly pleased.” 

Aw, goddamnit if that wasn’t the most adorable thing anyone had ever done. Yup, Crowley was fucked. She could get lost in those bluebell eyes shining with humor, that grounding touch that never stopped holding her throughout the night, that gentle moue of her pale mouth aching to be kissed. They’d been so good: a sound make-out session as Aziraphale tried to kick Crowley out of the bathroom (“Good Lord, Crowley, do you have to take up all the space? Is that black nail polish on the quartz countertops?” and Crowley’s inner scream of _distract, distract!_ meant she had Aziraphale on the counter, instead), followed by Crowley tearing herself away to ramble downstairs to make eggs and toast and stare at her well-used mouth in a mirror.

Crowley tugged on her black cap-sleeved tee—and yes, okay, maybe she wore it after hearing Aziraphale’s confession last night, sue her—let her hips roll just enough to set the long dark green skirt swaying around her legs. Aziraphale seemed charmed, eyeing the long slits on either side of the gauze. Crowley’s thighs were a temptation that she put to good use, and so what if it made sudden unexpected desire easy to fulfill? Push the panels to the side, have at her. No one ever said Crowley couldn’t pick up chicks. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Crowley managed to whisper as Aziraphale stepped away from her and opened the door for the aunts. They met her with enthusiastic hellos and glad cheek kisses. Crowley slithered to the shadows, pawing through her long, iron-straightened hair until Tracy entered the foyer and laid eyes on her. “Hi, Aunt Tracy,” Crowley choked out. 

“Oh. My darling girl.” Tracy’s eyes filled with tears as she reached up to lay hands on Crowley’s cheeks, thumb stroking along Crowley’s cheekbone, studying the bruise shadowing Crowley’s golden eye with a serious gravitas Crowley didn’t expect. “A little mugwort will fix that right up.”

Agnes appeared at Tracy’s shoulder, eyeing the bruise with a furrowed brow. “Whoever they were, they’ll get what they deserve,” Agnes said.

“Come dear. Let’s get you fixed up and a brownie,” Tracy said, adjusting her saddle purse to her other arm. 

“A brownie? For breakfast?” Crowley’s smile reached her ears. “You’re still doing that?”

“Well, of course we are!” Tracy exclaimed and slipped her arm through Crowley’s, guiding her into the greenroom. Crowley was plopped into a metal-backed chair. Tracy puttered around the shelves until she found a clay jar. Opening it with a sniff of disgust, she leaned forward and smeared a thin layer of gel on Crowley’s swollen skin. 

Crowley gave her a small smile of thanks, but her attention remained on the front room, where she could see Aziraphale leaning in to whisper in Agnes’ ear. Agnes nodded, her hands clasped in her version of worry. Aziraphale beamed that polite, overwhelming smile that meant she was worried too, but she was playing to her audience. White chalk and a leather bag filled her hands. Other spell components went into the pockets of her dark wash blue jeans and the beige fisherman’s cardigan. The front door squeaked open and closed behind her. 

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Crowley said carefully. Wards, probably. Magic to keep Crowley’s curse at bay.

“I’m never sure, dearie.” Tracy leaned back to evaluate her work. “But it warms my heart that they’re talking at all. It’s been quite the bumpy road since Sally.”

Crowley frowned, a sense of uneasiness wriggling in her chest. She didn’t want to ask, but how could she not? Sally, the woman Aziraphale had loved and lost. Sally, the shadow-creature and guardian of Crowley’s nightmares, loving Aziraphale better than Crowley ever could because for so long Crowley _couldn’t_ love Aziraphale, couldn’t do anything but hurt. ‘Why did you cast a love spell?”

Tracy sighed and wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. She carefully put the jar back on the shelf. “We’re both to blame, but Agnes put the idea in my head. She always fretted that Aziraphale would follow the same path as her mother. Solitude can be a terrible thing, once it has metamorphosed into loneliness. We worried she’d never find anyone who would love her.” Tracy took a deep breath. “It was the silly thought of old women who’d gone through their fair share of lost paramours. Sweet Zee is strong. Stronger than we’d all like to admit, for better or worse.” Tracy took Crowley’s hands, rubbed them, laid a kiss on her knuckles. “Oh, but I am glad to have you home. To have all of us here, under one roof.”

“Me, too.” Crowley felt surprised to realize it was true. 

“Maybe we should celebrate.” A wicked gleam lit Tracy’s eye. “Mid-day margaritas?”

***

By the time Aziraphale came back inside—chalk covering her hands, symbols drawn on the siding, herbs scattered around the foundation—the blender had ground out its third shaved ice. Crowley pressed a shot of tequila into her hands. “Don’t ask, not my idea,” she said, a sloppy chaotic energy about her, “all Tracy, mid-day margaritas, all I said was whoop, don’t blame the messenger.”

Aziraphale couldn’t stop smiling. Satisfaction warmed her soul, easing the ravenous black hole hunger of her loneliness. The silver tequila made her feel slightly ill, the smell making her think of broken bottles and broken minds, the gasoline wafting from the Bentley’s upholstery, the iron tang of blood and sickness in the air. But she took the offering with grace, tried not to gag as the alcohol went down. Crowley’s grin outshone the sun. 

“I set up wards that span the property,” Aziraphale said, “but that’s as far as I could stretch my magic.”

“A true angel, I say.” Crowley gave her a lopsided smile, her head tipping to the side and sending all that red hair—still untamed even from the straightener—sliding over her shoulder. A smudge of chocolate stuck to the corner of her mouth.

“Hush, serpent,” Aziraphale said, and she couldn’t decide if the glow was because of the tequila hitting her stomach, or because she wanted to lick that piece of brownie from Crowley’s lips, get under that peek-a-book skirt and see what else she could lick. 

Music filtered out of the kitchen. Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands, her shoulders rolling in a dance, eyebrows waggling, and soon Aziraphale had crushed ice, lime, and salt on her tongue. The glow in her stomach felt like stars as she replaced other tequila-memories with this one: Tracy and Agnes on one side of the breakfast nook table with arms around each other; Crowley giggling next to her on the pew-bench stolen by their ancestors from a church. 

Tracy took Crowley’s hand, outstretched it over the tabletop. She ran her fingers over her palm lines. “I see a man in your future, Crowley.” 

Crowley guffawed, gave Aziraphale a sleek gold-eyed look. 

Tracy feigned shock, her fingers dragging down Crowley’s slender ones.“Don't laugh! I’m a prophetess. Oh, la la, he is gorgeous! He is big!”

“Stick to your cards, you charlatan,” Aziraphale said at the same time Crowley threw her head back in laughter, shoulders shaking in mirth, saying, “Barking up the wrong tree! Give me a sailor-woman! Salt in her hair! Standing over a bubbling cauldron! Masculine magic isn’t for me anymore!”

“Crowley, darling, we all know you have your own kind of magic,” Agnes stuttered as she licked her wrist in a too wet line and took a shot. “And we all know what it is.”

“Oh, please,” Tracy said, poking Agnes hard in the arm. “When has being a slut been a crime in this family?”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Crowley shouted, near-standing, hands flat on the table, her snake eyes wide in shock. “I can be chaste. I can become a withered old hag.”

“That’s more my style,” Aziraphale said, wanting Crowley to know they were opposites and how much she loved it.

“Oh Hecate, you? A slut?” Agnes roared in laughter. “When we made the spell between you and Sally, we had to bind it with molasses, just to make it stick.” She gave Crowley a knowing wink, as if it were a long-standing joke.

“Really now,” Aziraphale said, the comment a sudden knife stick that she tried to hide behind an outraged smile. She swallowed hard and shut her eyes for a brief moment, praying, _please, I don’t want to ruin this, please, it was just a stupid jibe, please don’t hurt, but it does so hide it, hide it._

 _“_ Come off it, Agnes,” Crowley said, throwing her shoulders back, her torso long and slim. “When’s the last time anyone went down on you? It must’ve been, what 1699? Angel, when did the Puritans live here?” 

“Cruel girl,” Agnes said, taking another shot, descending into a fit of giggling. Aziraphale didn’t understand it, but Crowley found it hilarious, dissolving into breathless laughter and melting into Aziraphale, pushing her up against the wall and slithering into her arms. Crowley’s head nuzzled under Aziraphale’s jaw, and Aziraphale ran a hand down her undulating spine, in awe that this was happening to her. When she looked down, she saw the wide abandon of Crowley’s drunken joy, the dimple of pleasure accentuating her cheek, the absolute comfort as if she’d known, from day one, that she belonged right there in Aziraphale’s arms.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of the telephone cut through the teasing insults. “I’ll get it,” Crowley said, detangling herself from Aziraphale, stumbling to the hallway as if her legs and hips didn’t agree on what constituted as a gait. Aziraphale covered her stupid smile of adoration with her hand, watched Crowley round the hallway’s corner, the sharp cut-off of the ring. “Hellloooo?” Crowley drawled. 

Aziraphale turned back to the aunts, and tried to soothe the ache they’d created with their words, watching as they listed toward each other as the afternoon sun crept over the sky. Without Crowley there, Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to the aunts. Tracy had that cat-with-the-cream look, though, and Aziraphale blushed, thinking of Crowley plastered against her minutes before and how it must have appeared to them.

“Angel!” Crowley appeared around the corner, the old phone cord stretched taut. “Some book-girl on the line. Saying she needs to talk to you?” Crowley’s eyebrows crept into her hairline.

“Oh goodness, I’m such an idiot.” Aziraphale leapt out of the bench, ripping the phone away from Crowley and slamming the ancient black plastic to her ear. “Anathema! My dear girl, I’m so sorry.”

Crowley mouthed _Anathema?_ and followed Aziraphale back into the shadowed hallway as Anathema listed off her grievances. Aziraphale finger-combed her blonde curls and put her back to the wall, the receiver at her shoulder. Crowley shook her head and mouthed, _Book Girl._

“I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale winced. “Something came up, a family emergency. I should’ve called, but what a dear you are, taking care of the shop in my absence. Tomorrow, I promise. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Crowley put her palms flat out on either side of Aziraphale’s head, a dark predatory look crossing her sharp features. A flutter took up in Aziraphale’s heart when she realized that look was assessing her high rise blue jeans, the button up white shirt with the purple flowers, the fisherman’s cardigan over the top. Her mouth went dry.

Anathema began speaking again, but Crowley came closer, angled her face into Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale’s breath caught as Crowley’s tongue tasted the salt-lick of her skin, teeth gently scraping. Aziraphale shuddered, her brain going offline. As if it had ever been online to begin with. 

“Whatever you say, dear,” she told her bookshop associate, hearing the catch in her voice as Crowley sucked a bruise over her butterfly-flapping pulse point. “Feel free to purchase that management system you’ve been eyeing. Take one of the grimoires for a spin, if you’d like, share with your Wiccan group. Sorry, not Wiccan. I’ve always been a fool, dear, I can’t remember anything. Wait, what? How many times did Gabriel call?”

Crowley eased back, her serpent eyes full of enchantments. Aziraphale didn’t know how to answer the questions waiting on Crowley’s thin mouth as she listened to Anathema's response. Aziraphale sighed. “Tell him I’ll call him back soon. Like I said, family emergency and all. I’ll be in tomorrow. With company. My best friend. Show her around. Don’t sell anything important. I have to go.”

Crowley took the phone out of her hands and hung it up. She nudged her hips, parting Aziraphale’s thighs, slotting against Aziraphale with a gentle hum. “Should we put the aunts to bed?” she asked, but it seemed as if she were asking for so much more. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help it. Her senses were overloaded with one particular ache. Her hands desired to wrap around a narrow waist. Her eyes only wanted to gaze upon golden-slitted orbs fluttering with lust. The smoky musk between Crowley’s small breasts filled her nose, an inkling of what she might find if she parted that skirt. And taste. Oh, Lord. Taste. 

She closed the distance—the miles upon miles that stretched from that night on her balcony when Crowley slunk down a drainpipe to fucking Gillian of the Toyota to this glorious moment—pressing her lips to Crowley’s, and hoped her yes was enough. That she was enough.

***

The aunts took some convincing, but Aziraphale and Crowley tucked them into their respective beds with full glasses of water and aspirin on their bedside tables. Crowley had taken an extra chug of tequila before she went upstairs to where she heard Aziraphale pacing. The alcohol tasted like water, the final lime slice sharp and tangy, but her old friends anxiety and panic were starting to pipe up, reminding her that this was going too fast, that she’d had Aziraphale back in her life for mere days and already she was eager for the angel to whip her long skirt off, spank her pretty ass pink, and string her out on desire until she’d be begging for release. She paused, listening for a howl, but the wards must’ve been doing some kind of good.

She ascended the stairs. Aziraphale waited in front of the open door of her room. Aziraphale smiled, something soft in the oncoming dark, and Crowley’s head reeled. The tequila worked its magic on her libido, sending heat through her like its own kind of high because it was Aziraphale wanting her—her!—of all things, of all people. And yet, panic captured her tongue, having her spill out: “Are you sure, Aziraphale? Are you sure you want to do this?”

Aziraphale stared at her. 

Now it was anxiety’s turn to speak: “We don’t have to. I want to, obviously, because you’re, you’re…well, let’s just say that sober me is a coward, she can’t do anything right, the cunt, and I, I just want you to not look at me tomorrow morning and think, fuck what a mistake, you know, so if you’d rather watch _Golden Girl_ reruns, we can—”

But Aziraphale came towards her. Aziraphale cupped her jaw, her other hand tangling in Crowley’s hair, and she kissed Crowley like she might be drowning, all open and gasping and with intent. “Drunk mouths speak sober hearts,” she finally whispered, “and sober me is all about talk, figuring things out. She’s a complete ninny with no guts and I’d really love for us to not talk, and instead see what you’re hiding under that skirt.”

“Thank Hecate,” Crowley gasped as Aziraphale’s mouth slid down her neck, her fingers cupping her breasts. “This is good. I’m good at this stuff, not the other stuff.”

“The talking stuff?”

“Yeah,” Crowley whimpered. “I’m a runner, angel. You should know this by now.”

“Looks like I’ll have to start going to the gym,” Aziraphale said. “Just to keep up.”

Crowley breathed a disbelieving laugh. Aziraphale pulled her into her bedroom, shutting the door with a well-practiced flick of her foot, and fuck, could anything be hotter? Aziraphale wrenched her shirt up over her head, shimmied her out of her long dress, roaming her exposed flesh with tongue and hands, until Crowley stood only in matching black lace.

“Goodness, you’re gorgeous,” Aziraphale breathed, looking at Crowley like the finest wine, the finest choice, and fuck that felt right, that felt good. Her hands stroked Crowley’s flat stomach, slipping to trace the edge of her undies, and Crowley shuddered as Aziraphale claimed her mouth again. 

“On the bed, temptress,” Aziraphale commanded.

“You’re still dressed,” Crowley pouted, fumbling at the small buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt, instead. At least the cardigan had gotten the message and fucked off to some dirty laundry pile. Aziraphale helped her, but Crowley could handle jeans, and soon she had Aziraphale stepping out of them, getting a good look of flowered lace and ample thighs. Aziraphale kissed her, something messy with want. Then, she had Aziraphale leading her to the bed, Aziraphale unclipping her bra with an expert hand, throwing it to the floor, and dipping down to take one of Crowley’s blush-colored nipples into her mouth. 

“Put your legs around me,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley obeyed. Aziraphale’s fingers stroked her through the black lace and Crowley cried out against Aziraphale’s lips, spread her legs further, felt the ache in her hips. She wanted it all, so she took it, freeing Aziraphale’s full breasts, thumbing across the curves of them until Aziraphale came up for breath. Aziraphale pulled that lace down Crowley’s legs, leaving her bare and spread on top of the covers.

It had always been easy for Crowley to be naked. She was proud of her flat belly, the blades of her hip bones, her long legs, and the way the light glowed off her shaved thighs. But what she loved even more was when Aziraphale scooted down, pushed Crowley’s legs over her shoulder, and put her mouth to good use. Crowley cried out, felt the tongue flicker and lick and then eat. Aziraphale’s other fingers parted her, slipped one inside, followed by a second and began stretching her, curling up inside her. Crowley couldn’t spread any wider, but she wanted to, she wanted to so badly. She’d do anything, anything at all.

Crowley thrashed and cried out, feeling the heat beginning to build, but she couldn’t be first, she _couldn’t._ “Aziraphale,” she panted, “Aziraphale, I’ll do anything, please, please—”

“Please what, darling?”

Crowley shook, the sudden nickname bringing tears to her eyes. “I want to do you first,” she whispered. 

She nearly whimpered at the loss of Aziraphale’s mouth as Aziraphale eased up on her knees, but the fingers stayed inside her, clenching and stroking, and Crowley sat up, flung her thighs on either side of Aziraphale’s hips and scooted into her lap. “It’s not fair,” Crowley continued, her sober heart full of so many things. ‘You always come and get me. White knight style and everything. I want to watch you fall apart. I want to make you see stars. Fair’s fair.”

Her fingers parted Aziraphale. “You’re so wet,” she said, easing inside that core, curling her fingers, watching Aziraphale take another finger with ease. But instead of behaving like a good angel should, Aziraphale mimicked her. Hands to cunts, Crowley’s open mouth panted against Aziraphale’s, Crowley’s thighs shook with Aziraphale deep inside her, and Crowley’s orgasm hit like a wave, leaving her trembling, sweaty, and making urgent sounds of completion. 

Aziraphale grinned. 

“Bitch,” Crowley said fondly. She pushed Aziraphale on her back, her hands seeing just how far she could go into that flexible, padded, fucking gorgeous cunt until Aziraphale bit her lip, a quiet want on her face. Crowley’s chest ached to say something else—lover, darling, dove, baby, love of my fucking life—and she felt stupid proud of her hands as they pulled Aziraphale into a writhing mess of aroused gasps. Her mouth, her body, brought the angel to such heights, putting her to where she was needed most: at Aziraphale’s behest.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” Crowley said, instead of spilling out all that need. “I need to get a strap on, really fuck you, then. Get one of those double headed ones, yeah? We need friends. Friends who throw passion parties.”

“Sounds drastic. I’m sure we can find a suitable sex shop without having to make friends.” Aziraphale huffed a laugh, pushing her hair out of her face and a yearning hit Crowley, one she’d lived with her whole life, only now she could fulfill it. She leaned down and kissed Aziraphale, felt drunk on not just tequila, but on love and lust. Aziraphale pulled her down beside her, their bodies sticking to each other and Crowley cuddled the soft pillow Aziraphale made for her aching angles and sharp limbs. 

_How long?_ She wanted to ask as Aziraphale stroked her hair. _How long have you loved me? I’ve loved you forever. I knew it the first time I saw you, when you saved me, protected me. I knew I’d love you forever._

But she couldn’t say those things. Not with what haunted her. So she tilted her head up, a question in her slowly blinking eyes, and Aziraphale knew how to answer, kissed her long and good, until she couldn’t help but fall asleep.


	8. Chicks, Chinese, and Cemeteries

“Yes, I understand. Yes, of course, I’m going to be there. When have I never not been there?”

Crowley winced from her spot sunning on the settee-windowsill of the bookshop, hearing Aziraphale’s voice increase from low anxiety to high-pitched frustration as she spoke to someone on the phone. An old grimoire of a long-dead witch perched open on Crowley’s knees—borrowed without permission from Aziraphale’s surprising collection of rare and ancient texts tucked safely in the moisture-controlled back room. Outside, the great black beast of her curse paced the sidewalk across the street, but surprisingly, the thing had kept relatively quiet. 

“Yes, I understand that it starts in twenty minutes. If you’d hang up, I could finish my inventory and be out the door. Good? Good. Goodbye, Gabriel.”

Crowley took a sip of her coffee and sat the china cup on the worn Persian rug. She’d been spending her afternoons lounging in the bookshop—something about waking up alone in the house kept putting her stomach in cramps. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but sometimes, when she looked at her sleepy face in the mirror, she saw the girl Gemma loved: anorexic-thin, collarbones fragile as a chicken’s wing, bound immobile in mini skirts and sky-high stilettos. She didn’t see Aziraphale’s woman: the leggy bisexual and confident witch who favored black blazers, drove a sexy vintage car, who liked to pull the angel into good, messy make-out sessions whenever she could. 

The great beast rubbed its head against the chain link fence surrounding a park, which bustled with children released from school, and a familiar stab of dread swept over her. She needed to be more careful, but with this sudden freedom to kiss Aziraphale whenever she wanted, she was struggling—more like, she was barreling towards full-on becoming a romantic comedy A-list star in her own life. Yesterday, she caught herself imaging buying a tandem bicycle and riding around town with Aziraphale and fucking daffodils hanging out of the bike’s front basket. And she didn’t even stop there, because the next step in the fantasy had them riding their tandem bicycle to their seaside cottage with an ample garden and room for hundreds of books. She barely stopped herself from hopping onto Zillow.

She lit a cigarette to clear her thoughts, delighting in the sudden nicotine rush and the sharp smoke. The Book-Girl—fine, Anathema, whatever—perched on a ladder shelving merchandise, but had paused as well, her head cocked and listening to Aziraphale rage-mutter to herself. Newt, her loitering good-for-nothing boyfriend, bumbled around in the comics section, hiding as Aziraphale stomped out of the back room. 

Crowley’s heart melted when she saw those blue eyes glittering with anger, realizing too late she was the one in danger. Aziraphale beelined for her, plucking the cigarette right out of her mouth and taking a long drag from it. “Do you know what you get when you put a spark and paper together?” Aziraphale asked, and dumped the lit cigarette straight into Crowley’s coffee. “A fire, that’s what.”

“Uncalled for, angel!”

“Is that Great Bertha’s Grimoire of Possession?”

Crowley curled her legs up closer to her belly, noticing that she was, indeed, in grave danger. “Maybe?”

“And the fact that it's over three hundred years old escaped your notice?”

“No…?”

“Let me try again. What happens when you put paper and the sun together? Ruins. You get ruins.” Aziraphale blew smoke in Crowley’s face and buttoned up her coat. “If you’re going to hang around here all day, maybe you should do something useful. I’m going out for a meeting at the high school. I won’t be back.” The welcome bell chimed as the door slammed behind her. 

Crowley winced, spread her arms out in confusion to Anathema. “What’d I say?”

“Small Business Saturday,” Anathema said, the words sticky like taffy, like it explained everything.

“Say what?”

“Each month, all the small businesses on the island get together and choose a representative for the Small Business Saturday coalition. Aziraphale started it, ensuring the initiative ran all year and not just during the holiday season to promote the other small businesses, but she’s never been chosen by the other owners to be the face of the coalition.”

“It’s a big honor,” Newt piped up, creeping out from behind the shelves. “A really big deal here. You get all kinds of things: marketing, advertising, lots of sales.”

“Respect,” Anathema added. “Community support.”

“And Gabriel is the representative of the credit company that gives out certain perks. She’s been on and off with Aziraphale for a while, but she never votes for her, either.” Newt finished.

“He,” Anathema corrected. “Gabriel uses he/his pronouns. He’s transitioning. They met after Sally passed, when Aziraphale was starting the coalition.”

“Oh. But Aziraphale’s still a, er, ah…” Crowley swallowed a small node of panic familiar to the time she’d exposed Aziraphale’s secret as a dumb teenager. Seeing Aziraphale’s face crumple like Crowley had run her over with a truck was nothing compared to the absolute rage that followed. Crowley had never been more scared shitless than when Aziraphale dumped her precious journal full of spells and confessions into the fire. Bets were that everyone knew Aziraphale was a lesbian at this point, how could they not, but Crowley still couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud in fear of those long-ago repercussions. “Aziraphale hates selling her books,” Crowley pointed out, instead.

“She still has to pay rent,” Anathema said, going back to shelving. “She lost a lot of money with the house and funeral, doesn’t have that many royalties coming in since she stopped singing.”

Crowley bit her lip, looked away. She didn’t want to ask, but she knew she must. “Why doesn’t she get chosen?” 

“Because everyone knows she’s a wit—” Anathema stopped. “Different.”

“Huh,” Crowley said, turning to look outside, seeing Gemma’s face in the window’s reflection over her own. She shut her book and knew what she had to do.

***

Crowley sauntered through the familiar hallways of the high school, tasted the smell of sweaty teenagers, frantic teachers, and puberty on the air. The memories of this place…sometimes she couldn’t tell if they were good or bad. A note saying ‘Meeting In Progress’ had been taped to one of the classroom doors and Crowley opened it without a knock. A group of adults looked at her in surprise, all seated in too-small desks, looking exceptionally proper. The tall short-haired brunette at the podium narrowed purple eyes at her and asked, “Can I help you?”

Hecate, did she stand out. Long loose red hair compared to the prim buns and braids of full-time mothers and shop owners. Their comfy J. Crew sweaters and high-end tennis shoes compared to Crowley’s black tank top and gold chain accentuating her barely-there hips. What did Anathema say?  _ Different. _

She shot he-who-must-be-Gabriel a cocky smile and continued her saunter inside, pointing at Aziraphale who’d hunkered down in the back as if she waited for the guillotine. “Aziraphale,” she said, maneuvering through the desks and enraptured business owners. “Just wanted to see Aziraphale.” 

As she pulled a chair to plop down beside the angel, she heard someone whisper near the front of the room:

“Oh my god, is that a snake tattoo? On her face?”

“Yeah, I heard there’s one on her boob, too!”

An elastic band snapped, catching the gossip in the face. She gasped in pain, turned enough to show her friend the slick of blood from her cut lip. 

“Don’t do that,” Aziraphale said softly, shuffling papers in front of her, eyes turned demurely downwards.

“Wasn’t me.” Crowley threw her arms out in protest of the unfair accusation. “I’m innocent.”

Aziraphle fought a smile, but it broke through. Crowley leaned in, delighted, as Aziraphale tried to smother an emerging laugh behind her hand. Crowley grinned, pleased to have broken whatever mood that had transformed her angel into a…well, a bit of a bastard, to be honest. Gabriel cleared his throat at the interruption, his voice carrying over the business owners unsettled whispers. “Now that we’ve concluded our main meeting points, I’m so pleased to announce that the business representing Small Business Saturday and this community as a whole is—”

He frowned and flipped through his tabbed and highlighted folder. He swallowed hard, looked up at the coalition with uncertainty, and perhaps a little displeasure. “The representative is Aziraphale Fell.”

The coalition turned as one to stare at Aziraphale, who looked in shock herself. 

“Way to go, Sweet Zee!” Crowley whooped with a slow clap. Her voice seemed to echo in the dead silence of the room. She crossed her arms, leaned in close to Aziraphale, and whispered in her ear, “Now,  _ that  _ was me.”

***

“Congratulations, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, approaching them as the meeting concluded, his purple eyes roaming over Crowley from head to foot. “It’s about time your good deeds were rewarded.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, sounding flustered, sounding happy, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel like she’d do anything to have the angel look like that, always. She needed to temper these urges, needed to separate herself from the angel before she started planning honeymoons. Aziraphale’s life was always in danger when she was with Crowley. “I’m so pleased. I promise, Gabriel, I won’t let you down,” Aziraphale finished.

“I have no doubt you’ll be a success.” Gabriel smiled and held out his hand to Crowley. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“Oh, Gabriel I’m sorry, this is my—”

“Best friend,” Crowley cut in, taking Gabriel’s hand. Good shake, strong and firm. “I’m her best friend. Been together since childhood, her and me. Antonia Crowley. Call me Crowley.”

“That’s a lovely name,” Gabriel said. “Aziraphale never mentioned she had such a stunning friend. Didn’t think you knew  _ how _ to keep a secret, Aziraphale.”

“I’m just visiting,” Crowley said and withdrew her hand. She was starting not to like this pompous prick. Aziraphale swallowed loudly, and slipped all of her papers and ledgers—fucking ledgers, really?—into her tote. 

“I thought we might grab dinner,” Gabriel said, addressing Aziraphale. “There’s a fantastic new gastro-experimental place. All the food is presented as puffs of air. You smell it, instead of taste it. Won’t that be nice for you, no new calories to count. I certainly can tell you how nice it will be for me, not having to recalculate my step-count to walk it off!”

“Oh, I don’t know—” Aziraphale’s eyes flickered to Crowley, and Crowley knew what was coming, she’d seen it before in old flings that were ready for a deeper commitment than Crowley was ready to give. Aziraphale was about to out them as being a couple.

“You should go, Aziraphale,” Crowley cut in again, trying not to look at the confusion and distress on Aziraphale’s face. This was good. This is what they should do. See other people. If they kept it casual, kept whatever they had under the radar, then the curse wouldn’t come for them. It’d get confused. The more people to fuck and love, the less people died, right? The less danger Aziraphale would be in. “I’ll be tied up all night, anyway. Going out with Dan Miller for a date.”

“You have a date?” 

Crowley’s heart wheezed seeing that familiar crumple, the quick recovery as Aziraphale rammed her social mask on, obvious in the sudden stress lines around Aziraphale’s eyes as her lips pulled back into a polite greet-your-customers smile, just real enough to hide the fake. And Crowley wasn’t lying, she did get asked out on a date—Danny had approached her when she first walked into town to visit the bookshop, had bought her a coffee and said it would be great to catch up, he’d had a crush on her for forever, would she like to maybe sit down and talk? The attraction saturated the air. Crowley had waved him off, made a maybe-sometime promise, and sought refuge by pouncing on Aziraphale in the back room, pinning her to the desk, rucking her skirt up, and going to town. 

But this was good. Low-key. Casual. Aziraphale would understand. They needed this. Plus, they hadn’t talked about being a couple, about being anything but friends with benefits despite the obvious I love yous lingering in the air, eager to be said. If it hadn’t been said, it wasn’t real—even if Crowley was guilty of future house-shopping and composing a declaration of lifelong adoration.  _ Nothing had been said. _ “Yup,” she said. “He asked me out a couple of days ago.”

“You’ve only  _ been _ in town a couple of days,” Aziraphale said, and the smile had become more forced, her jaw jutting out.

“I can’t imagine you’d be single for long,” Gabriel interjected. “You are so trim. Do you do yoga?”

“Nope, just built this way. Live on a diet of gummy worms and coffee.” Crowley snuck a look at Aziraphale, saw the smile had disappeared, replaced with a tightening at the edges of her lips, as if she might be fighting back tears.  _ Better get out of here quick.  _ Crowley could explain everything later, they’d have  _ the talk _ , but right now she had to show Aziraphale that it was cool if they weren’t exclusive for the sake of staying alive.

_ “ _ Impossible,” Gabriel smiled widely. “No one looks that good without a strict regime. Maybe you can help our Aziraphale out, too. We could all get on an exercise plan together. It’s always easier together, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale had gone very still beside her. “Sure, maybe sometime,” Crowley drawled out. “I have to jet, sorry to run. I’ll see you later, Aziraphale. Gabriel, such a pleasure.” She laid a quick kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek, something a best friend would do, tried not to read too much into Aziraphale’s stiffness, the way she pulled away.

Crowley’d told Aziraphale, been honest from the start. She was a runner. She darted out of that high school so fast it gave her whiplash. 

She wasn’t going to meet up with old Danny Miller, he of the full lips and full hair. She was going back to the bookshop, to study the dark arts books in the back. She had a feeling something was wrong with her—an enchantment maybe, she didn’t know, but she needed time to herself to figure it out. She needed to figure out a way to break this curse and understand why she was seeing Gemma’s face like an echo of her own in the mirror.

***

_ Don’t cry. Don’t you let one fucking tear slip, do you hear me, Fell? _

Aziraphale watched Crowley leave the school and hated everyone else who watched Crowley leave, too. Gabriel included. Some with hate, some with lust, all with interest. She should’ve known—one good thing always came with a punishment tenfold. Finally,  _ finally, _ she’d been chosen to be the coalition’s leader—even if that choice had been procured through nefarious means—but she didn’t expect that she’d have to pay for that unexpected kindness by being publicly dumped. 

Jealousy fed the rejection rolling inside her. It shouldn’t be surprising that Crowley’d been asked out immediately by someone else  _ days ago _ , that she’d caught the attention of another suitor with her alluring large eyes playing peek-a-boo behind those sunglasses, the way brief flashes of her stomach showed when she swayed her hips in those skin tight black jeans, the matching dark lipstick painting her mouth into a biting slash. Aziraphale had never doubted the ‘I’m one-of-a-kind’ aura oozing from Crowley. Was never under any impression that Aziraphale was more than the dull, beige muffin next to that slender willow tree, but she thought…she thought…

At some point, Aziraphale had unknowingly proven to Crowley she wasn’t enough. Crowley gave her this leadership opportunity as a charity gift, had kissed her cheek as if to say thanks, it's been fun. Aziraphale had learned this lesson before, but apparently it hadn’t stuck: nothing good could happen without serious consequences.

The pain under Aziraphale’s rib flared in agony. She gritted her teeth and took shallow breaths, accepted Gabriel’s offered hand as he led her out to his car. 

_ Do you do yoga? _ Sometimes, she thought she should leap off a cliff. Just disappear into the ocean, and people might notice after a couple of days. Poor fat, widowed Aziraphale. Sally was the only good thing about her. If she fucked Gabriel tonight and he asked about Crowley, she would not be responsible for her actions. 

And that was funny too, she thought as Gabriel revved the engine of his sports car. She probably wouldn’t do anything traumatic. She’d say,  _ Sorry, you’re lovely, but I have to be alone now, thanks for the sympathy sex _ , and slink off with her tail between her thighs, never answer his phone calls, ghost him like a coward. 

She wasn’t even going anywhere where she could drown her sorrows in ice cream—she was going to a fucking restaurant that served air. 

What did she do? Was she bad at sex? Did she say too much? Speak her heart too loudly? Why had Crowley suddenly pulled away? They’d said no I love yous, avoided commitment—and Aziraphale had to look out the window before she sobbed, because that was it, they  _ hadn’t _ said those things, Aziraphale had simply assumed, so why would she expect that Crowley would want something like that, so fast, especially after everything that happened? She was probably still recovering from Gemma. Aziraphale had most likely been—oh Lord, she might be sick—a rebound. 

“You idiot,” she whispered to the dark-tinted window.

“Come again?” Gabriel asked, taking the road’s S-curve a little too sharply. “Did you say something?”

***

“Go down on me,” Gabriel whispered, and shoved his pants down, his shirt half open, the binder still securely on. Aziraphale complied, drifted down his chest with small kisses. “I love how slimming that dress looks on you,” Gabriel whispered. Aziraphale rolled her eyes and covered Gabriel’s clit with her mouth, tongue flickering back and forth. Gabriel tossed his head back, gave out a moan of appreciation.

At some point during dinner, Aziraphale’s grief had transformed into numbness. Gabriel gave her orders and she followed. She knew the drill: praise Gabriel’s choice of air-puffed food choice that honestly smelled like different fart flavors. Tilt her head up to be kissed. Try to ignore that it was too wet for her taste, but hey, at least she was being kissed at all. She should be grateful. Then, the drive back to Gabriel’s suite at the Hilton, the clean white lines of his bed sheets, the blinding white textured wallpaper, juxtaposed the throwback art nouveau hangings and sculptures in gold. She was still wearing her eggshell white iris-watercolor printed dress. Her body had barely been touched, the foreplay lasting minutes before Gabriel asked for oral, and Aziraphale complied. This way, at least she could have a moment to think logically while her mouth went on autopilot. 

She’d always been so stupid. She never asked any questions. She assumed that if someone wanted to be with her, they wanted to be with her always and solely. She never said, hey, is this just fucking because, well…no one had ever wanted that with her before. She’d had four lovers in her life: That One College Fling, Sally, Gabriel, and Crowley. She never thought to ask anything of any of them. Honestly, she was so scared to ruin things, she kept her mouth shut until her partner’s real feelings came out. 

She brought her head up and Gabriel uttered a sound of disappointment. “Gabriel, are we…exclusive?” 

His head shot up, eyes narrowing. “Why?” He sounded nervous. “Do you want to be?” 

“I just never asked if we were having a fling or if this was heading somewhere serious. It’s been over a year, after all.”

“Oh,” Gabriel propped up further on his elbows. “I’m not really in a good place in my life to fully commit to someone as amazing as yourself.”

“That’s no trouble,” Aziraphale said, taking in a deep breath, inhaling the sharp smell of Gabriel’s dimming arousal. “I simply wanted to inquire. How…many women are you sleeping with, currently?”

“Look, babe…”

“I’m not upset.” Aziraphale took a leap of faith and lied her little soprano heart out. “It turns me on, knowing that you’re here with me and not with them.”

Gabriel’s worry turned to feral delight. “Oh, Ms. Fell, I didn’t know you were that kind of girl.” He touched the back of her head, nudged her back down. Aziraphale followed instructions, let her tongue dance around Gabriel’s clit as Gabriel began to talk. “Well, Kara wanted me to come back tonight, but I told her business kept me too late to travel. Then there’s that sexy minx Samantha who I met at a pilates class a couple months ago. And sweet little Ashley, she just got on this keto diet and hell, rediscovering her confidence has made her one hot thing.”

“And what makes me different from them?” Aziraphale asked, feeling Gabriel’s thighs clench. Dutifully, she slipped two fingers inside the wet heat of him, turned them, rubbed in the right place until Gabriel gasped and bucked.

“You’re chaste,” Gabriel whimpered, coming all over Aziraphale’s fingers. “Innocent. You…look up to me. It’s like we’re having this work affair thing going on. Like I’m showing a sheltered girl the world. Move back. I want to do you.”

Aziraphale scooted back, reached for the zipper in the back of her dress. Her loneliness was setting her up for all kinds of psychological problems and right now self-loathing was the most prominent. 

“No, keep it on.” Gabriel sat cross-legged and reached under her skirts, his fingers slipping down to find her clit and gave a rough rub. Aziraphale shifted in discomfort. “Isn’t this good, Ms. Fell,” Gabriel crooned, his gel-combed hair disheveled. “Innocent dove, what else do you want to hear? I can make you feel so good.”

“Oh, yeah,” Aziraphale said, “that’s the stuff.”

“I bet you can come just like this, my fingers on your lily-pure pussy.” 

“Indeed.” Aziraphale tilted her head up to look at the ceiling, screwed her eyes shut tight because she might start crying right there, her mouth half-parted in a kind of grimace to hold in the pain skewering her. Gabriel’s fingers felt like sandpaper.

“Look at that, letting me give you this. Are you coming?”

Aziraphale let out a laugh of disbelief, hiding it to be a pretend huff of pleasure. She wasn’t even wet. Could he really not tell the difference between her O-face and one fortelling a breakdown? After a year, could he not take one look at her and sense that something was wrong? Was it really outside the realm of possibility that he might ask her,  _ Hey, something seems off tonight, are you okay? Do you feel comfortable telling me what’s wrong? _

Was she really this desperate for a connection that she’d fake an orgasm instead of tell Gabriel to stick it where the sun didn’t shine? 

“Oh, yeah,” Aziraphale said. “I just came.”

“Hot.” Gabriel’s hands snaked out of her skirts. They sat for a moment, Aziraphale somewhat in his lap. 

“So…” Gabriel began.

“Can you drive me back to my car?” 

“Sure thing, babe. That was fun.” Gabriel extracted himself, slipped on his neat dress pants, and escorted her out of the hotel and to his car. They drove in mostly silence, and at least Gabriel had a pleased look on his face, as if the night had been a rounding success. Seeing her shitty Honda in the school parking lot was like sighting a burning bush—and she wondered, with a swell of panic, that she should get tested to ensure she didn’t end up with a burning bush. Gabriel pulled up and threw his sports car into park. Aziraphale exited and leaned down, unsure of what to say. Goodbye? Until next time?

“I’ll call you,” Gabriel said. “I’ll be in town next month for some corporate retreat.”

“I’ve started seeing someone,” she blurted out. “It’s kind of new, but I think it might go somewhere. So, I’d like us to have a more professional relationship going forward.”

“Oh,” Gabriel said, his face falling somewhat. “No problem. If you want to start back up again, just give me a ring.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said and wondered why the polite smile she usually wore refused to show up in her time of need. She realized she was frowning, a stress ache forming between her eyebrows at how severe she was…oh goodness, _ glaring. _ “And so you know, I’m a renowned opera singer. I’ve sung at the Met and Carnegie Hall, just to name a few. I’ve composed over ten original pieces, one opera, and have four albums out. I’m easy to find online. Look me up.” She slammed the door on Gabriel’s slack jaw, slid into her Honda with a rush of adrenaline, and drove to the nearest chinese takeout restaurant. 

***

One order of General Tso, a side of pork lo mein, and three egg rolls all tucked into styrofoam, Aziraphale parked in front of the cemetery and slipped through the gate bars. She’d walked this route hundreds of times. Tall mature trees waved leaf-heavy boughs at her, the grass flush and healthy between the gravestones. Peace permeated the place, a sacred piece of earth saturated with the dead. 

Sally had a simple stone. It was all Aziraphale could afford at the time. Her name. A set of hated dates. Generic words of  _ Beloved Wife  _ below. Aziraphale wanted to write a paragraph in that space, chisel that Sally was a slice of heaven wrapped up in human form, that she was the best and most treasured thing in Aziraphale’s life and Aziraphale was lost without her. 

“Hi,” she whispered and sat down, pulling her late night meal out of the shredding plastic bag and splitting her chopstix in two. “Glad to see the flowers are still fresh. I know how much you love wildflower bouquets.” 

The General Tso was over flavored and saucy. Aziraphale let out a sigh of delight. At least she could always count on food to fill that emptiness in her heart. “I broke up with someone for the first time, today,” she said between bites. “Gabriel. I know, should’ve done it sooner, but I’m a sad lonely spinster, Sal. Got broken up with too, although that’s not new, but I thought this one might’ve been something that lasted, you know? The moon tonight, there’s a circle around it. A sign of trouble not far behind. Should’ve seen that clue from miles away.”

The lo mein was greasy and she nibbled on one of the artificially-pinkened pork slices. The ache under her rib increased and Aziraphale had to pause for a moment until it passed. A shudder wobbled through her, an urge to speak the truth as prose, similar to the time she’d come out using the poetry of Sappho. “Sometimes, I feel like there’s a hole inside of me, an emptiness that at times, seems to burn. I think if you lifted my heart to your ear, you could probably hear the ocean.” She wiped at her eyes, felt an earthquake threatening to shake her house of lonely. “I have this dream. Of being whole. Of not going to sleep each night wanting.”

The sorrow overtook her then and she paused, finally letting herself cry. “But I never learn, Sal. I never learn. Even now, when the wind is warm and the crickets sing, I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for. I just want someone to love me. I want to be seen.”

She leaned forward and traced Sally’s name. It felt good, saying all of that, even though it had felt like nails coming out. “Maybe I’ve had my happiness. I don’t want to believe it, but there’s no woman, Sally. Only that moon.” 

The egg rolls were thick and fried to golden crispness. She dipped one in bright red sweet and sour, rolled the flavors around her tongue. A breeze ruffled through the cemetery, letting the trees sing to her. She sighed, felt like she’d absconded to the deepest levels of self-pity. “You always said I had a melancholy heart, that I needed to remember how to get myself out of it,” she continued, “and maybe if I can’t find another person to love me, there’s still love in my life. My bookshop makes me feel smart, finding those first editions is such a thrill. My magic makes me feel strong. Singing makes me feel like I’m closer to a higher power, brings me peace and purpose, although I haven’t done it in a while. I wrote a whole album dedicated to us, you know. It’s just sitting there. Recorded a raw demo on my own, even.”

The stars glimmered, fighting with the moon’s radiance, and Aziraphale could hear Sally, smell the fresh wash of her hair, the way she liked to leave kisses against the apple of Aziraphale’s cheek. “Okay,” she whispered, overcome with memory. “You win. You always win.” 

She pulled out her phone, wrote a quick email to her talent agent, and attached one of the song files to it. Sent it before she could overthink it, because she had to find some kind of love in this world. Even if it wasn’t the stuff of romance novels or could be compared to the aching expression of arias. If she had to be relegated to getting letters again, she’d love Crowley in any way that would be acceptable. She had to learn to love in other ways, and love herself. 


	9. Possession

Crowley drummed her black-painted fingers on the two-person card table nestled against the window of the foyer, giving her a full view of the depressingly empty driveway. The rose bush had begun to bloom, pink petals spreading sweetly and winding around the trellis. The garden sat quietly under the bright moon, as if soaking up the glowing light. The white painted wire patio table sat under one of the trees, two empty chairs waiting for a clear summer day. Crowley fiddled with the handle of her mug, the cooled black coffee half drunk at her elbow. 

She’d been going out of her mind for hours. Tension cinched her organs together, binding her insides into a too-tight corset of dread. For hours, Aziraphale was nowhere to be found. For hours, Crowley checked her phone in five-minute intervals, praying for a message, too terrified to send one herself, until Tracy had cleared her uneaten supper and shooed her and Agnes away so she could do a personal reading. For hours, Crowley had to remind herself that maybe Aziraphale decided to spend the night with Gabriel, that she wasn’t the type to fuck and flee like Crowley. Aziraphale would want to cuddle and make them breakfast in the morning, and tell Gabriel how beautiful he looked when the sunlight came through the windows—

Fuck. Just... _ fuck. _

Across from her, Agnes dealt a new round of cards. Her abandoned cigarette smoked in the ashtray. Crowley picked it up, took a drag, but the nicotine made her more jittery. She shifted into a perch on the chair. Her black cotton tunic hung loose along her frame, her black leggings stretching to accommodate her pretzel-shaped sitting preferences. She’d pulled half of her hair in a messy bun. Assorted silver chains of different lengths dangled down her front, outfitted with charms of saints and stones. Tigers eye. St. Anthony. A cross and pentagram for good measure. To banish the additional dread not caused by Aziraphale’s absence.

“There’s no possible way that can be comfortable,” Agnes said, picking up her playing cards and schooled her expression into a poker face.

“Part snake,” Crowley commented. “Spine all curved. Heard from Sweet Zee tonight?”

Crowley froze as Agnes raised an eyebrow at her. “Me? I thought you’d be the one who knows where she’s at.”

Crowley shrugged, realized part of her dread was shame and twinging jealousy. “Think she’s with Gabriel.”

“That asshole?” Agnes folded her cards. “I was under the impression that the two of you were, you know, making a go of it.”

Crowley took full ownership of Agnes’ cigarette. “I decided we should keep it casual. Open relationship and all. It will be safer in the long run. Don’t want the curse to suddenly show up and devour her. I told her I had a date with Danny Miller.”

“He’s a nice boy.” 

“Sure, he’s nice, so nice, the nicest, perfect white-picket-fence nice. But I kinda lied. I didn’t have a date with him. I went back to the bookshop and…I snooped, Agnes.” Crowley’s leg began to bounce.

Cards fully forgotten, Agnes lit a new cigarette. “What did you find?”

“Aziraphale never told me her and Sally were going to have a baby.” 

Hecate, that had been a gut punch. She’d slipped past Anathema making sweet sounds against Newt’s mouth, grinding together against the Frank Herbert collection, had got herself comfortable in front of the restricted section in the back room, thumbing through ancient spells, looking for a clue, anything, to explain the curse that hunted her. She never expected for documents to tumble out from between the yellowed pages: mortuary expenses, the sale of a daffodil-painted home, and paperwork stamped and notarized about a terminated adoption. 

There had been a letter, too. Unsent. Addressed to Antonia. 

“She didn’t tell us either, if that makes you feel better.” Agnes turned her head to blow smoke out the open window. “Didn’t know until after Sally died. She came here in a state, demanding we resurrect Sally. Said if we didn’t, she’d lose the baby boy to another couple.” Agnes took in a deep breath, ran a hand down her gray dress, as if seeking comfort. “You know how she can be. It’s like if she exposes a good thing or announcement to the universe, that good thing will be ruined. Like something bad will happen. We probably wouldn’t have known she’d become a mother until she had that child in her arms, bringing him over to be introduced.”

Crowley’s throat felt dry and she shifted again, folding her legs underneath her. “Do you think she still wants that? Marriage, kids, monogamy, all that straight-gay stuff?”

Agnes offered her a small, sad smile. “I think Aziraphale buried a lot of things with Sally.” 

Crowley looked outside, feeling like scum. Just beyond the wards Aziraphale had erected, the bulky shape of the curse paced, rubbing its head against the grass, snorting in frustration. It glared a thousand eyes at her. “I found a letter addressed to me, too. Never sent. Dated after Sally died. It was so angry, Agnes. I’ve only seen her that angry at me once, when she threw her diary into the fire. Remember?”

_ You’re a coward, Antonia. You don’t give a shit about me. I needed you and you ignored me. You fucking left me. On purpose. Are you just keeping me on your good side in case you need something? Are you in on it, the love spell? Keep sad lonely Aziraphale busy with a lie, with a doll for a wife. She’s stupid enough to think she earned this love. Not like she could find anyone to love her on her own, that anyone would fucking want that pitiful excuse for a human. Sally’s dead, Antonia. She’s dead, and not even our love was real. It was as fake as this friendship we have. I hate you. I fucking hate you. I never want to see you again. _

Crowley couldn’t breathe. Her nails dug into her palms. “I missed Aziraphale’s grief. She left me voicemails, texts, but I deleted all of them because it wasn’t safe. I had to distance myself from her because I always had this…this...” She patted her heart, hoped that word would get across to Agnes, that word she could never say. “Whenever I heard her voice, I wanted to come home, but that would put all of us in danger, don’t you see?”

“I understand, dear. You were doing what you thought was right.”

“But it wasn’t right. I left her. I never understood what she was going through. To me, Sally was just this ghost, a story. Somebody to wait out your life with. But after reading that letter…Hecate, Agnes. Reading that letter killed me. She _ should _ hate me. What I did was awful. Unforgivable.” 

Crowley blinked back tears and glanced at Agnes, saw a terrifying stillness to her aunt. Agnes let out a sigh from deep within her body. “I’ve never explained myself to Aziraphale, either. About the love spell Tracy and I put on Sally. She found that out too, that night she wanted a resurrection. It was awful. You should’ve seen the betrayal on her face. I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“You never talked about it?”

Agnes shook her head, a sheen of tears in her own eyes. “I’m too scared to, can never find the courage. We’ve never been the same since. I’m terrified to bring it up, to say I’m sorry. What if she decides to write us off forever? Never speak to me again like her mother did? I can’t risk that. I can’t lose her like I lost my sister.” 

Crowley reached across, took Agnes’ hand, and squeezed. 

“Her mother said something to me once. That she was disappointed with everything in her world, and because she was so disappointed in everyone, she was disappointed in herself for accepting it. I see that in Aziraphale.” Agnes tried to smile. “She’s forgiven us, for the most part. You know Sweet Zee—she could forgive anyone anything. But she’s reserved. She holds back.” Agnes tapped her cigarette into Crowley’s cup. The ash swirled on top. “I think that’s what made Sally so special. Sally told me once that loving Aziraphale was like caring for an iron bulb. She required so much unasked for effort and love, so much patience, but her petals were starting to unfold. Sally said she was beautiful, that she was worth it.”

“She sounds like the perfect woman.” Crowley hissed out air between her teeth, deflating like a balloon. “How can I ever compare?” 

Agnes studied her for a moment. “For Aziraphale, actions speak louder than words. But sometimes, saying the hardest words is the best kind of action. Maybe you can say what’s really in your heart. Reaffirm your affections for her.”

“How can I?” Crowley gasped, defeated. “The curse would kill her.”

“What if the curse was gone? What would you do?”

“I’d make us get matching tattoos,” Crowley said, her voice breaking. “I’d sit front row at every single one of her concerts and bring her a dozen roses after every performance. I’d put a ring on her so fast her head would spin. I’d buy her every rare grimoire in the whole world, fucking buy a library to house them all in. I’d make up for everything.”

Twin beams of light illuminated the driveway. Crowley sat up straighter, swaying side to side. The old Honda puttered and parked next to the Bentley. The engine cut, the lights went out, and Aziraphale didn’t get out of the car.

“What’s wrong with having all that now?” Agnes said.

“What if I can’t make her happy?” Crowley asked softly. “I’m chaotic, restless, always saying the wrong thing. I’m not settled. And that’s besides the point that I might get her killed.”

Aziraphale slowly got out of the car. She looked exhausted, her hair messy, a vision of depression. Crowley stifled a concerned sound, fought the urge to go to her, wrap her in her arms, ask what had happened to make her sag like that. Who did Crowley have to kill to make it better?  _ Anything. I’ll do anything for you. _

“That’s what the curse wants,” Agnes said, gathering the unplayed cards and slipping them back in their case. “It wants you to make the choice to kill your loves. Be smarter than that. Don’t give it what it wants.”

Aziraphale looked up at the moon. Whispered something to it. Her head lowered as if whatever weight she carried was too much to bear. 

“I gotta go,” Crowley said. She shoved off the chair and followed the tug at her heart, leading her outside. 

***

The door creaked open and slammed shut behind Crowley as she jogged-sauntered down the porch steps, across the garden pathway and to the fence where Aziraphale waited. Crowley rammed her hands into her back pockets. Her hips cocked way too far to the right. “Hey.” She hated how breathless, how ruined, she sounded, just at the sight of the angel—her angel. 

“Hello.” Aziraphale stopped her snail-slow walk and studied Crowley warily. 

The moon illuminated her face, the wild short curls tickling her cheeks and hitting just under her chin, the ocean-blue eyes narrowed with suspicion, her mouth pursed in a prim line. Physically, a swarth of space lay between them full of grass, bushes, and flowers, but somehow it felt as if Aziraphale was too far out of reach and Crowley was screaming for her across a chasm. She swallowed hard. Courage. That’s what she needed. She had to prove herself worthy and to do that, she needed courage. “Gabriel’s a prick,” she said.

Okay, not a great start. Fuck, okay, a terrible start. Her brain fizzled in a mixture of nerves and guttural commands that her tongue interpreted in entirely the wrong way. “He’s a big asshole of a prick. You could get stabbed with an ego like that, you know?” 

Hecate, what the hell was she saying?

Aziraphale looked stunned. “Well,” she sounded out slowly, as if navigating a verbal mine field, “since you dumped me in front of my peers—people we’ve both known for years—I’m not sure Gabriel is the one winning first place for biggest prick of Massachusetts.”

“I didn’t dump you,” Crowley gaped.  _ Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit— _

“Really? How did your date with Danny Miller go?”

“Fuck Danny,” Crowley snarled, one hand extracating itself from her back pocket and doing hand gymnastics in the air. “It wasn’t—I didn’t—there wasn’t—”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline and how did things get so boggy so fast? Crowley had fucked up in ways she didn’t even know, and if she screwed this up, what else had she said or done that had been misinterpreted? The trees rustled and the curse-monster emerged, a huge brute shadowed creature, far too dark with far too many eyes. It bared teeth at her and the moonlight caught the saliva dripping from its fangs, waiting for Crowley to make a misstep.  _ Courage. _

“I’m a stupid cunt,” she said. Yes, this was familiar territory. “I’m a big fat liar. Danny did ask me out on a date, but I’m not into him. I’m into you. So I broke into your bookshop, instead, looking for a way to break this curse I’m under ‘cause I thought all those magic books might have a solution.” 

Crowley winced. That didn’t sound as good out loud as it did in her head. 

Aziraphale pinched her nose between her fingers. “You’re sending me a lot of mixed messages.” 

“Okay, so, here’s the deal. Today, at the school, I thought we should be casual, you know, see other people on the side as a preventative step so my feelings didn’t end up with you being disemboweled and all.” 

Aziraphale made a sound like an over-boiling tea kettle. “And when were you going to tell me this?”

“I assumed you knew. That’s how it works, right? You, like, have to decide to be monogamous with someone, but until then it’s all fair game.” 

“And you don’t want to be monogamous with me?”

“I mean, I do. If you do. But if you don’t, I don’t want to, either. I want to do what you want to do, just as long as we’re together in some capacity. I didn’t mean to dump you.” Crowley sounded aghast, finally realizing exactly what her actions must have translated to, not just to Aziraphale but to everyone else on this forsaken tiny-town island. Aziraphale’s withdrawal suddenly made a lot more sense. “I don’t want to break up,” she added, losing her gusto.

“I don’t even know what we are, Crowley.” Aziraphale blinked rapidly and looked away, her hands clasping together. “We’ve known each other our whole lives, but we haven’t been involved in each other’s lives for years. I’d rather be your friend than a rebound. That way, you can see Danny or anyone you want to really, and we don’t have to worry about losing each other. It’s not your fault. I should’ve clarified…well, everything, before leaping in.”

“I don’t give two shits about Danny.” Crowley felt like a dog with a bone, but this fact seemed like the most important piece of this whole complicated conversation. The curse-monster bumped its head against the invisible wall of Aziraphale’s wards, testing the limits, and Crowley rushed forward, closing the distance between her and Aziraphale. She couldn’t stand it—she needed to be within the angel’s aura, to be close enough to grab Aziraphale in case the curse-monster attacked. “You’re not a rebound, never have been. I want to see you. Only you.”

Aziraphale didn’t look particularly convinced. “Then why the act earlier? Why shove me off on Gabriel?”

“Ugh, Gabriel. Asshole.”

“Yes, you’ve established your dislike for my choice in lovers.”

“Did you guys…you know…”

“Have sex? If you could call it that.” Aziraphale’s nose wrinkled. “I broke up with him. ‘Tis the day for it, it seems.”

“Aziraphale, I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I’ll swear on anything to make you believe me. Angel, I…” Her other clenched fist worked itself free from her back pocket, and thumped her chest, over her heart. “The L word.”

“Lesbian?”

“No!” Crowley felt hysterical. The black beast thumped the wall-ward harder as if frenzied and let out a near-human wail. “The other L word. The most important word in the whole world.”

“Oh, do you mean you lo—”

“But don’t say it! Don’t fucking say it, angel. We need a code word.”

“Aardvark?”

“I aardvark you, Aziraphale. I aardvark you the most. I aardvark every single piece of you. I aardvark you so much I might explode with how much I aardvark you.” Crowley gasped for air. This was the single most important—and ridiculous—thing she’d ever said in her whole life. 

A sudden shy smile curved Aziraphale’s rosebud mouth. Her eyes shone with stars, not tears. “Oh, I see. I aardvark you, too.” 

The black beast bellowed. The sound vibrated Crowley’s skull, nearly deafening her. Fury exploded inside her, replacing the cold terror she’d lived with her whole life. This stupid curse had kept her shackled in fear for far too long. They’d lost so much time. All she needed was creativity to navigate the no-man’s land between expressing her _ aardvark  _ for Aziraphale and saying it out-right. She turned to the creature and screamed, “Shut the fuck up! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something extremely important!”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as she turned to follow Crowley’s line of sight. “What was that, dearest?”

“The curse.” Crowley waved her arms enough that Aziraphale stepped closer, and ran her hands down the beaked angles of Crowley’s elbows, interlacing their fingers together. “Slamming its head against the wards you made. Trying to get to us. Howling and growling and screaming so loud I can’t think. But we’ve outsmarted it, angel. I can say I aardvark you and it can’t do a thing to us.”

“Let’s not press our luck. Perhaps we better get inside. I had the foresight to add additional warding on the interior of the house, just in case the ones on the outside washed away in a storm.”

“Angel, you’re the smartest, gorgeous-est, sexiest thing in all of creation.”

“Of course, darling. But Crowley, I do want to be clear. I’m not the type who sees other people. Honestly, I don’t have other people to see at all, even if I wanted to—”

“Angel, please, please, believe me, I don’t want that—”

“So, if you want to see other people you must give me time to get the appropriate wigs and costumes. I could be a slutty gardener assessing the state of her carrots. Or a naughty nanny drinking her lunch on break.”

“I don’t think I could aardvark you more.” 

Aziraphale laughed. She shone. Crowley felt like she was dissolving into a puddle of melted steel, being remade and blacksmithed into a stronger, worthy blade. The relief to have finally said her innermost secrets, shared the one thing she’d wanted to say her whole life...it left her feeling loose inside her own body. Aziraphale tugged her hand and together they stepped on the porch, but Crowley paused, pulled back as Aziraphale opened the door. “I want you to tell me about Sally,” Crowley rushed to say. “Tell me all the dumb stuff you guys did and wanted to do. Maybe we could do some of it. In her honor.” 

Aziraphale stilled, searching Crowley’s serpent-split eyes. “That would mean a lot to me.”

“I mean it. Tell me something about her that no one else knows.” 

Aziraphale grinned, looked up to the heavens. “Once, I tried to make an oat-based vegan lotion. Sally couldn’t stop eating it.” 

Crowley roared in laughter and ushered the angel inside. She paused and looked back over her shoulder. The black beast thundered its clawed hooves in rage, but beside the rosebush, the air flickered, like television static. Gemma stepped into existence and shot Crowley that feral grin that always meant Crowley would be in chains that night, gag in her mouth, blindfold over her eyes, reduced to nothing but a dog serving her mistress. “We’re our own family, babe,” Gemma said, in a voice full of dirt and gravel. 

“Go away,” Crowley whispered. New fear settled in her stomach, a kind of shocked horror. “Gemma, go away.” She closed the door on the vision, the haunting—whatever—and turned to see Aziraphale coming out of the kitchen holding a plate with pie on it in one hand, two forks in another. “Share with me?” she asked. 

Crowley couldn’t speak. Anxiety clenched her heart, leaving a stunned mist floating through her mind. She wanted to tell Aziraphale what she had just seen, but for some reason, she couldn’t form the words. She nodded anyway, as if her head wasn’t under her control. Aziraphale led them into the living room, where they settled on the floor in front of the fire. 

“You’re shaking,” Aziraphale said as she handed Crowley a fork. 

“Reptile,” Crowley said, surprised at how easy that emerged from her. “Always cold. How was that air-restaurant, by the way?”

“Like breathing in flavored burps.”

Crowley threw her head back in a full-throated laugh, her fears eased momentarily. This. This is what she lived for. This vision of happiness for her and Aziraphale. Even if her first bite of pie tasted like ashes, this was still happiness.

***

At some point, Crowley fell asleep with her head resting in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale’s fingers discovered they had an addiction to the mass of soft red tangles sprawling over her thighs, the way Crowley herself curled up tight as if in hiding. Soft snores escaped her parted lips. The day had been full of emotional whiplash and Aziraphale couldn’t believe it had ended up here with a declaration of small armored animals being a symbol of love, of devotion. The embers of a golden fire Aziraphale hadn’t felt in a long time caught and fed on the kindling of her heart, a fragile thing of infinite warmth, to be protected at all costs. Aziraphale ran her hand down Crowley’s back and Crowley groaned, burying her face in Aziraphale’s thigh, clutching her middle as if it ached. “Darling,” Aziraphale whispered. “I want to take you upstairs.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said. 

“I want to kiss you.”

“Nggh.”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Mrrp.”

“I want to make sweet aardvark to you.”

“Ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.” Crowley’s slunk into an upright position, blinking overly large eyes at Aziraphale. _ Gorgeous serpent. _ Aziraphale couldn’t resist. Her fingers had gotten used to tangling in her red curls. She wound her hand around the nape of Crowley’s neck, pulling her in, sliding her mouth over hers, deepening the kiss when Crowley opened up for her. “Take me here,” Crowley said, tugging at Aziraphale’s dress. 

“But what about the aunts—”

“Live in the moment, angel.” 

Aziraphale kissed her again until Crowley whimpered in want against her. She fingered the hem of Crowley’s tunic, pulled the soft cotton over Crowley’s head. Crowley’s legs spread, straddling Aziraphale and they slid off the couch. Crowley’s back hit the floor and she smiled sweetly, a look Aziraphale hadn’t seen much. 

Aziraphale sucked bruises on Crowley’s neck, wild for the sharp knees pressing in against her sides as she uncovered new skin. Her mouth nudged Crowley’s bra out of the way and took a nipple into her mouth. 

Crowley gasped softly, suddenly undulating against Aziraphale, her hips digging into Aziraphale. “Want your mouth on me, please, angel, please, I want it.”

“I’ll give you anything,” Aziraphale said, a bit overwhelmed with the desperation in Crowley’s voice, as if this was the first and only time they’d be together. 

Aziraphale slipped the leggings off of Crowley’s long legs, delighting in the miles and miles of her, eager for exploration. She put her mouth to Crowley’s slick desire, and it was so different than Gabriel. She wanted to wash that experience away, never look on it again. Replace it with this light-headed lust that told her to suck and lathe and keep those sharp hips frantic for more. 

Aziraphale gave Crowley everything she ever could, was rewarded by choked off sounds coming from Crowley’s throat, sounds of encouragement that created a surge inside her, something of the painful pleasure variety.

“Angel, angel—”

Aziraphale looked up, saw the topographical map of her lover. The flat plains of Crowley’s belly, the hills of her breasts, the heaving dips and caverns of her throat. “What, darling?”

“What if—what if I want things—” Crowley shut her eyes tight, as if desperate to keep her words inside.

“What kind of things? Tell me. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“What if I wanted you to mark me in some way.” Crowley sounded breathless, almost worried. “Claim me somehow.”

Aziraphale slipped two fingers inside her as she thought how to maneuver that request. She stretched Crowley wide, felt the muscles inside clench and pull until she could add a third. Crowley moaned, whatever else she’d been going to say cut off. “Like this?” Aziraphale finally managed. 

“Yes, like that, but, what if I wanted more like…a collar. What if I did? What would you do?”

Aziraphale shuddered, thinking of that choke chain. It was better to be open and if this was what Crowley wanted, she’d do her best. But she couldn’t be like Gemma. It would break her. She kept her rhythm, trying to make Crowley believe she was lost in her cunt, not in her thoughts. “It’d have to be something soft, like velvet,” Aziraphale said. “Is that what you want, Crowley?” She licked and sucked, enjoying the small noises Crowley let out. Then, testing the waters: “Do you not know who you belong to?”

“I don’t, I don’t,” Crowley panted, her eyes oddly glazed. Aziraphale continued the stretch, added a fourth finger, wondering if Crowley could take her whole hand, fill her enough so she could feel her quiver all the way down to her wrist. 

Crowley stuttered out, “What if…what if…someone like Gemma comes along again and tries to,  _ you know _ . You know what she did. But if I had something, proof, then if she saw it she’d know. That I belong to you. That you’d fight for me. That you’d come for me.”

Aziraphale stopped, slipping her fingers out. Crowley uttered a sound of distress. This felt like a much larger conversation, one that had Aziraphale driving through mist, her destination unknown. “Crowley, I don’t own you. No one owns you. Gemma never owned you—what she did to you surpassed any sort of concession on your part. She abused you. Do you understand that?” 

“‘Course I do. I understand it, I do. Just can you do it for me? Please? Pick something out, anything, I’ll wear it. I don’t want her to find me again. We’ll enchant it. Cloaking spell.” 

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s chin, leaving sticky fingerprints on her skin. “If you want something like that, we’ll do it together. Ease me into it, yeah?” She smiled, tried to keep her uneasiness down. She felt so unprepared. So...vanilla. Of course she’d do these acts to prove her love and devotion, but she needed to understand them, too. Go about it the right way. The safe way. “What else do you want?” Better to start a list. Then, at some point, she could run frantic internet searches in the dead of night, become an expert on all this very quickly. Or at least lay a foundation. Book smart and then street smart. 

Crowley looked suddenly unsure, her eyes looking at anything but Aziraphale. Aziraphale touched their foreheads together, kissed Crowley gently.  _ I love you _ , she thought. _ I don’t want to lose you. _

“Be back inside me, please, angel.”

“That I know how to do.” 

With a well placed thigh and swivel of her hips, Crowley flipped so she was on top of Aziraphale, and began to ride Aziraphale’s hands, two, three, four fingers easily slipping back inside. Crowley tossed her head back, her mouth half-parted, her red curls tumbling over her chest and tangling with the silver between her small breasts. 

“You feel so good,” Aziraphale whispered, amazing and so in love, so hopelessly in love, and she’d do anything to keep this. “You gorgeous thing. You beautiful creature. God, look at you, can you take my thumb, do you think you could?”

Crowley’s hips shifted, sinking down and Aziraphale felt the hot spread, all that wet heat taking as much as she could. She shuddered, like a rattling snake, a tremor that started from the bottom of her spine and worked all the way up and Aziraphale felt the strength of Crowley’s climax deep in her bones. 

“Fuck,” Aziraphale whispered. An emptiness sat inside of her, urgent to be filled. “I need you, now. Come here.”

Crowley obeyed, leaned forward for Aziraphale to claim her mouth. Aziraphale’s fingers eased out, spanning the dip of her spine, feeling for those dimples so she could dig her thumbs in. Crowley’s hands wrapped around Aziraphale’s neck, slowly tightened until Aziraphale gasped out in immediate displeasure. “Crowley, loosen up, that hurts, please—”

“You unbroken cow,” Crowley hissed in her ear. “I’m going to take you out back and show you what it means to be tame.  _ Yee-haw.” _

Aziraphale jerked back, the back of her head smacking against the carpet. Crowley’s breath ghosted over her cheek. The smell of old tequila, dried blood, and something rancid—old venom and rot—filled her nostrils. Crowley’s fingers stroked her neck hard enough to leave bruises. When she pulled back enough for Aziraphale to see her face, a chilling smile carved across her reddened mouth. Hazel orbs replaced the serpent eyes, a dullness coloring her normally vibrant hair, almost as if Crowley were shedding, and the old skin wouldn’t peel off. 

_ Gemma. _ A cold rush of certainty dumped into Aziraphale’s veins.  _ Possession.  _

Aziraphale punched Crowley’s chest with enough force that Crowley’s body buckled with a gasp. Azirphale pushed her off. She stumbled to her feet, backed up until the heat from the fireplace scorched her calves. 

Crowley tsked, standing up in sharp movements as if she wasn’t used to controlling a body. “What’s wrong, angel? No hello? Cat got your tongue? That’s alright. I planned to kill you after what you did to me.”

“You’re dead,” Aziraphale whispered. “Even if your spirit is here, there’s no way you should be able to remember me or Crowley…” Her words died as she suddenly understood her grave mistake, a loose end that she hadn’t sewn up. She hadn’t banished Gemma’s memories after taking them from her. She hadn’t banished Gemma’s spirit from the house.

“I remember everything,” Gemma hissed, the firelight gleaming off Crowley’s naked body as she tried to circle Aziraphale. “But now, I think I’ll just take what’s mine. Crowley, she’s been so bad. Back into the cage with her. I’ll make her watch as I gut you and then she’ll remember how to heel.”

Fury thundered in Aziraphale’s veins, the lagging sound of lighting power filling the space between Aziraphale’s palms. Blue and lit with white, it screamed from a place of pure horror and the bone-deep purpose to defend and protect. 

Crowley’s forked tongue rolled from her mouth with the sudden slide of long fangs. Aziraphale threw that power into Gemma, sending Crowley’s body slamming into the bookcase on the other end of the room with enough force that the whole thing toppled down on top of her. The sudden release of magic disappeared with a pop and boom, leaving Aziraphale buzzing and fragile. “C’mon,” Aziraphale whispered. “Get up.”

Running footsteps. Shocked gasps. “What in Hecate’s holy name is going on in here?”  _ The aunts.  _

“We need a binding circle,” Aziraphale said, in awe of her commanding tone, but something precious was at stake: her whole future. She looked up from Crowley’s sprawled unconscious form to see Tracy clutching at Agnes and Agnes’ grim face. Her magic lighting receded back into its hidden space inside her. She knew that when she looked at her aunts, that electric blue fury ringed around her eyes, as well. “Crowley’s possessed.”


	10. If You Ever Did Believe

“That Gemma is squirming inside her like a toad,” Agnes said, as she completed drawing the circle that effectively bound its inside occupants like a prison cell.

Crowley writhed on the wooden floor of the foyer. Aziraphale watched her, broken-hearted, sitting cross-legged as close as she could get to the circle without breaking it. Books of prophecy and grimoires sat open all around her. Aziraphale had effectively knocked Crowley unconscious with her power, but little by little, Crowley had somewhat gained consciousness in the form of a brain-boiling fever.

“You, of all people, should’ve known better,” Aunt Tracy hissed as she paced around the circle, checking the white chalk lines, and lighting a second ring composed of big ivory-colored candles. Her unpainted mouth looked unnaturally pinched in the darkness, her silk kimono drawn tight around her body. “What were you thinking?” 

“I was thinking I needed to save Crowley from being killed and dumped in a ditch,” Aziraphale said, and clapped her teeth together, wishing she could find that ability for politeness that had suddenly vanished. She fixed Aunt Tracy with a furious look. “What could I have done? Gone to the police? Explained that Gemma had been injected with venom of unknown species origin and cracked over the skull in self-defense? No one would believe the truth!”

Aunt Tracy scowled. “You should’ve told us, at least.” 

_ I would never have told you. _ The thought came unbidden, but Aziraphale felt its truth. The trees of forgiveness and trust between them had been shorn to the roots after Sally, and while they still lived under the soil, they had not grown much. “We had a problem,” Aziraphale said. “We handled it.” 

“You invoked powers beyond your ability,” Tracy said. “You can’t practice witchcraft while you look down your nose at it. It’s one thing to help Crowley, another to leave her vulnerable to forces that would gladly attack her! You left Crowley weakened, exposed, an easy target because of your arrogance, because you didn’t follow protocol!” 

Crowley moaned, tossing her head side to side. Sweat beaded her brow. Pain lanced through Aziraphale with every uttered word, well shot arrows that thumped into her. Small, but precise and deadly. “The spell wasn’t beyond my ability. I  _ am _ a powerful witch, not the little girl who enjoyed sweets for breakfast. I’m a woman in charge of her own life; a woman who can act and decide and take responsibility. You’re right, Tracy. I did leave Crowley vulnerable. No one else knows that more than I do.” She took a deep breath, felt like she was on trial, and decided to recite her sins. “I performed a memory spell on Gemma. It was the final straw that killed her. I buried her body. I did not banish the memories I took. Those memories gained sentience from being so close to her corpse and now they’ve possessed Crowley.”

“Mistakes aren’t recipes you can recite and expect to suddenly be forgiven for,” Agnes said softly. “Do you even feel remorse?”

“How dare you ask me that.” Aziraphale gripped the pages of an exorcism grimoire so tight the pages wrinkled. She felt so alone. “What a question from the two of you, who bend love to their will. You lecture me on looking down my nose at magic when you could be helping me, helping her!”

“Of course we’re going to help her,” Aunt Agnes said, shooting Tracy a concerned look. “She’s family. You’re family. Did you think we wouldn’t?”

Guilt strengthened the shame spreading through Aziraphale with each pump of her heart. Tears stung her eyes because yes, in the darkest part of her soul—the basement of her house of lonely—lived the certainty that they wouldn’t help her. That they would punish her for this mistake, shrug their shoulders with their refusal of,  _ we can’t do that, we don’t do that.  _ That they would let Aziraphale lose her second chance at love. They hadn’t helped her before, when Sally died. Aziraphale took a shaky breath and realized she had been waiting. Waiting for the next shoe to drop, the next axe to fall, the next secret to be told that would shatter her world. She opened her mouth to say no, she knew the aunts would help _ , _ but nothing came out. 

“Dearie, we love you,” Aunt Tracy said, kneeling beside Aziraphale, pushing her blonde curls behind her ear. “We love her. You’re more precious to us than anything else. You’re our Sweet Zee.”

“We hurt you before,” Agnes choked out. “I’m so sorry, but let us help. We’re still family.”

“We have to save her,” Aziraphale finally managed, as Tracy wiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t lose her.” 

“It won’t be as simple as an exorcism,” Agnes said. “This Gemma isn’t a ghost.”

Crowley’s body suddenly drew itself to its knees, her unblinking eyes fixated on Aziraphale. Her tongue rattled out a hiss, and she began to creep closer. Then, she stilled, and her head tossed back, caught in the midst of a spasm that had her mouth unhinging in a wordless scream. Scales flowed in and out of existence along her skin, her spine elongating and then shortening with snaps and creaks, the bones of her arms and legs cracking as they were broken and reformed.

“She’s trying to shift,” Aziraphale said in awe. “Crowley’s fighting back.”

“That old defense mechanism won’t work here. Not with Gemma burning Crowley out like a cigarette,” Agnes said.

“She won’t last much longer before Gemma has complete control,” Tracy said softly, laying a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. “Somehow, we need to draw Gemma out of Crowley, channel her memories into another vessel.”

“A dead body would be ideal,” Agnes said. “Do we know any dead people?”

“Once we get Gemma out of Crowley’s body, we have to butcher that vessel. Break up the pieces and keep them far away from each other so the memories can’t come back together and seek out their original mind,” Tracy finished.

“Maybe your friends know some dead people?” Agnes added.

An idea began to tickle the back of Aziraphale’s mind, the same kind of underground creative growth whenever a new song formed, or when she put two spells together to make something completely new. She bit her lip, trying to be patient enough for the idea to emerge, when Crowley collapsed, her breathing erratic and shallow. Crowley’s shape settled back into human and her eyes cracked open, showing familiar golden serpent-slits. “Angel?” she whispered, hoarse.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale said, frantic, and crawled out of Aunt Tracy’s embrace to the edge of the circle. She laid down, face-to-face with Crowley. ‘Darling, I’m here. I’m so sorry.”

“She wants me,” Crowley whispered, each word harsh and punctuated with a ragged breath. “Just me.”

“She can’t have you.” Aziraphale’s voice broke. “You have to stay with me.”

“You…have to let me go. Everyone will be safe. Just let her take me.”

“Out of the question. Don’t you dare die on me. Don’t even think it.” The box of protection buried inside her house of lonely, the one full of lighting and fury, thrummed for release. “We’re supposed to grow old together. Two old biddies and all those cats. We’re supposed to die together, remember? Same day. You promised me that.” Aziraphale’s pointer finger slammed the wood for emphasis and she choked back a sob. “Today is not that day.”

Crowley’s eyes rolled up in the back of her head. Her lips cracked and bled. A fever flushed her cheeks crimson, and Aziraphale could see the veins break out along her skin like the small branching lines of a waterway seen from far above. Crowley’s breathing became even more labored as a new spasm left her strung tight as a bow. 

“I won’t let you die,” Aziraphale promised. She’d lost Sally—in no uncertain terms would she lose Crowley. “Absolutely not.” She ached to whisper her love to Crowley, tell her how much she meant to her, that she loved her, that she’d never ever let her go.  _ The L word. Aardvark. _

Aziraphale sat up suddenly, her own breath hitching as it all came together. The idea swirled back, as fragile and see-through as fresh morning mist. She tasted the memory again. Shattered glass. Tequila. Lime. Rot and venom. “I have an idea. It’s reckless and insane, but it's an idea.” 

The aunts looked at her in confusion, but Agnes said, “We’ll try anything. We don’t have time for anything else.”

Aziraphale closed her eyes and put her hands together as if in prayer. She felt the weight of earth, the tangled weave of deep roots, the slither and crawl of earthworms and insects, the red bloomed scent of roses. She pushed her hands apart, felt the earth tremble and shift on her command, revealing a grave just under the white trellis. 

She held back the slow collapse of earth as her power licked the decaying limbs of Gemma’s corpse. With another prayer to Hecate and an additional one to God, she laid that power within the body. With a twist of her neck, she who once was Gemma twitched and rose from the grave, trailing a path of sweet rot and iron-black earth toward the house of witches. 

***

The bottle of tequila was half-empty when Aziraphale licked a line of salt from her wrist. A palette of lipstick stained the glass rim—plum-red for Crowley, magenta for Tracy—and Aziraphale took a swig, let the sour citrus of lime cut through the taste of gasoline and colored wax. She waved the wet bottleneck at Crowley—no, Gemma—as if taunting a dog with a treat. Gemma jerked Crowley’s head up, tongue flickering to scent the air. 

“Hey, Gemma,” Aziraphale said, taking another drink. “I got a worm with your name on it.”

Gemma got on hands and knees, pacing the far corner of her circle, focused on Aziraphale with an intensity that made Aziraphale feel very much like prey. Aziraphale studied the hazel eyes cutting through the gold, the lank flatness of usually coiling curls, and found nothing of Crowley. Her resolve hardened, stronger than steel. 

Once Agnes had heard her plan, she’d begged Aziraphale to reconsider. They could lose both of them, and as it stood, only one would have to die. But Aziraphale had strength hidden under the floorboards of her house of lonely, power woven in the pipes of her. She just had to be brave and reach for it. 

It was all or nothing. Nothing existed beyond this night if they both weren’t in it.

“Too bad you can’t have it,” Aziraphale said. “Just as you can’t have Crowley. She doesn’t belong to you. I’m the one who takes care of her.” _ Careful, Aziraphale. That was a close slip.  _

“Bitch,” Gemma growled. “I have the memories. She loves me. Crowley told me she loved me, in the car, before you tried to see the color of my brains.”

“She did say that, didn’t she.” Aziraphale licked her pointer finger, a long glide of her tongue, and drew one line across the chalk, breaking the magic binding Gemma inside. “Do you love her, still?”

“Of course, I do. I love her. I love her more than you ever could. I love her, you stupid fucking cunt, and I’ll prove it. I thought killing you would be better, but now I think it would be better to own you.” Gemma smiled, something too wide with too many sharp teeth, her eyes flickering down to the key to her prison—that line of tequila and spit. 

Aziraphale smiled back. The house rattled as if caught in an earthquake. The walls shook. Pictures fell off their nails, books vibrated off their shelves and fell open on the floor. The wilting fire in the fireplace bloomed bright. If she listened close enough, she could hear a high-pitched wail of victory, like a hound baying at the scent of a fox. Somewhere, the wards she’d placed around the house splintered and shattered.

Gemma’s memory-spirit detached from Crowley’s as a white blurred spectre. It darted out swiftly and slammed into Aziraphale.

Aziraphale gasped. Her head thrust back as two souls battled for dominance inside her. Gemma flooded her with recollections not her own:  _ Crowley, in a black tank top, her elbow hooked outside the Bentley’s rolled down window as she drove, old green bruises ringing her wrists as she smoked a joint and gave Gemma the silent treatment. _

Gemma claimed control easily, snipping the tendons and cartilage and connective tissues holding Aziraphale’s soul to her body.  _ Crowley, high on cocaine, stumbling out of the mosh pit of a rock concert, her pupils mere slivers as she tugged off her metal studded shirt to reveal her black bra, her leather pants clinging to her legs. She kissed Gemma, all force and need. _

Gemma shoved Aziraphale’s soul out of the way, possessing the empty spaces Aziraphale left behind, putting on the too-loose jacket of this new body and securing it tight with the belt of her memories.  _ Crowley, shutting her cell phone with a snap, blinking back tears behind her sunglasses, and Gemma put on the blonde opera singer as a gift, let that classical barf-music fill the room, but Crowley was in no mood to play, so Gemma broke the CD into pieces.  _

Moments. Aziraphale had mere moments before Gemma overtook her completely. She fought back, defending her brain, tongue, mouth, and jaw, first and foremost. Her legs lost feeling—gone, like paralysis. As if any connection to it had been severed. She erected a wall for Gemma’s memory-spirit to attack, something high and made of white stone. She repurposed her house of lonely for its nails, wires, and beams to keep Gemma out for as long as possible. Aziraphale strained and quivered, listening frantically for another cutting howl. Everything hinged on that howl. Her body became strung out in a spasm—she could feel, like an outsider, the crunch of her bones, the pop of her knees as Gemma twisted what pieces she controlled of Aziraphale’s body into unspeakable shapes. Being possessed was ghastly, horrible, agonizing. Just barely, Aziraphale caught sight of Crowley lifting tear-stained serpent eyes to her. Despair covered her face. Blood seeped from her nose. Crowley gasped in pain, but whispered, “Please, don’t. I love her.” She let out a sob. “I love you, angel.”

Aziraphale’s arms went next, leaving her a prisoner in her torso as the cold tingle of Gemma’s offense crept up her chest, seeking total possession. She nearly had it—full control over Aziraphale.

The windows of the house shattered. The door blew off its hinges. A great black beast roared in the doorway, a huge thing crafted of shadows and ooze, a creature with the skull of a horse, with the teeth of a shark. A thousand eyes blinked in rage at her. 

Aziraphale’s chest went next. Suddenly, she couldn’t control her lungs or the beat of her heart. Her mouth widened, gasping like a fish for air. Gemma wrapped around Aziraphale tighter, clawing at her, and Aziraphale clung to her sentience with every fiber of her being. The last vestiges of her strength lay on her tongue and she whispered a concocted exorcism of home with the last vestiges of her suffocated breath. The spell wrapped around the possessing spirit and Aziraphale funneled Gemma out of her body and into the mouth of the corpse held up in the arms of her aunts sitting beside her, the three of them hidden with a spell of shadows until the time was right.

The animated clay jerked as Gemma flowed from Aziraphale into her original body. A painful tingle encompassed Aziraphale, as if she’d been submerged in ice, leaving her disoriented, suddenly unsure which end was her feet and which her head. The corpse blinked cloudy eyes at her, worked a jaw heavy with rigor mortis. 

“You said you loved her,” Aziraphale whispered, like reading off the deeds of the condemned. “She said she loved you.”

The black beast attacked the object of Crowley’s so-called adoration. The aunts threw Gemma toward it, seeking cover as the beast tore Gemma’s arms off. Clawed hooves stomped her legs to pulp. Gemma tried to scream, only uttering a gurgle wet with mud and rot. The black beast of Crowley’s curse ripped into her core, sending the poisoned scent of decay and bloated organs into the air, Gemma’s insides puddling on the floor. The curse shrieked in victory as it ate the one Crowley proclaimed to truly love—Gemma, the dominant spirit that inhabited Aziraphale’s body when the words were said. 

The curse devoured every piece of Gemma, choking her rotted body down its gullet. When Crowley’s beloved had been consumed in entirety, the black beast let out a roar that transformed into a high-pitched wail of agony. The black beast heaved, the rotted body suddenly coming back up its throat. Its legs collapsed. The eyes rolled in pain. White foam frothed from its mouth. 

“Crowley didn’t love Gemma, she loved the body Gemma was in,” Aziraphale sounded out, her tongue foreign in her mouth. “You broke your purpose. You killed the wrong person and thus, have broken your vow to the spell that created you. Go back into the ether, from whence you came. I banish you both.”

The black beast thrashed and tried to regain its standing, but collapsed again, as if it couldn’t control its body. The aunts chanted a spell of final death and the candles rose into pillars of fire all around them. The curse melted into a shadowed lake of ooze, disintegrating the floorboards like acid and finally drying into a fine layer of dust. 

Aziraphale let out a soft sound of disbelief—her plan had worked. Together, against all odds, they’d done it. She’d saved Crowley, broke the curse. But, despite it all, Aziraphale hadn’t learned from her mistakes. A loose end she’d forgotten to tie up struck.

Aziraphale didn’t anticipate her heart forgetting how to beat. She didn’t foresee her lungs struggling to recall their purpose. The strands of her magic congealed inside her, unable to ignite and pull her out of what was most certainly going to be her demise. The world unexpectedly pitted with black spots. Aziraphale pitched forward, sprawling on the wood floors of her family’s ancient home, grasping at her chest and flopping like a fish. 

In the space of her final moments, she saw Crowley’s mouth drop in horror. In between long black blinks, she saw Crowley lunge for her. When her brain finally darkened, the last thing she felt was being wrapped up tight in something long, dry, and scaled. Aziraphale’s body jerked in unanticipated throes, awash with sudden peace of success, before she died. 


	11. In the Crystalline Knowledge of You

Soft golden sunlight cut through the white darkness of death. Bells rung, the old church kind, and each tone vibrated throughout…what? A mind, body, soul? What was left? 

A hand carded through her hair, the back of that hand drifting down to gently touch her cheek. She couldn’t move, as if her whole essence were bound, keeping her grounded in this space between life and death. She blinked and looked up at a feminine visage, her flesh the ebony-black of the night sky with planets as eyes and the Milky Way as a mouth. When that mouth opened, a cacophony of celestial song poured out, sounds and tones unhearable by the human ear. She realized that this woman was God, that God spoke her name: _Aziraphale_. Aziraphale’s mind splintered at the sublimity filling her, the hundreds of thousands of starlit eyes that gazed on her with such love. God smiled fondly, sang another name that warmed Aziraphale’s heart, and Aziraphale agreed. Yes, she’d go back, if that’s what she was meant to do. She’d go back. 

The sunlight strengthened and Aziraphale shuddered, finally opening her corporeal eyes. She blinked, disoriented, as the afternoon light filtered through the open windows, illuminating dancing dust motes caught in the beams. Her hands clutched at the sheets. Familiar room. Familiar bed. Familiar black-tinted scales indicating a stress shed sticking to her arms and chest. 

A slash of pain cascaded throughout her and she gasped, begging for the sudden agony to pass. Her essence felt loose inside this mortal body, as if whatever slosh she called a soul hadn’t rebuilt the infrastructure to keep her secure inside her own form. Bruises wrapped around her arms in the shape of thick rope—or perhaps a terrified serpent wound too tight. She tried to sit up, and nearly passed out from the pounding in her head. 

Slowly. She rolled over, picked up the phone charging next to her bedside. The date was a week and some change from last she remembered when she was…alive. Endless notifications clogged her feed, but one stood out from her talent agent. That’s right. Her opera. She clicked on it, saw too many exclamation points, the contract waiting for her review, the excitement that the thing had sold like a buttery French crepe to a hungry studio and when could she fly to LA to record? 

Aziraphale grinned. Even that hurt. She put her phone down and tried to stand. Nausea gripped her, but it soon passed. Slowly, she crept out of her room and down the stairs, clutching the banister for balance. Silence permeated the house, as if suspended in anxious waiting. The reminders of the night she died lay out in the front room—dried candle wax puddled on the floor, a black stain darkened around a pockmarked and termite-ridden looking hole, the books still bent and piled next to their empty bookcases. Plastic sheets had been taped over the broken windows. A plywood door had been erected in place of the old familiar one. Right now, that plywood was cracked open, giving Aziraphale a slivered glance of her aunts, both wearing big floppy hats, cups of tea sitting close between them as they lounged on the porch. 

Aziraphale’s heart clenched in relief and love. Her hand shot out to catch herself as nausea overwhelmed her again, threatened to make her faint. She wanted to know—did Crowley live? Was Crowley safe and unharmed? But such frantic questioning only increased the pounding in her head. The voice of God vibrated through her mind. _Slowly._

Perhaps, after her battle with Gemma’s spirit and subsequent death, her own soul hadn’t adjusted to being stuffed back inside her body, to being back on this planet. Perhaps, after using so much spellwork in uncharted territories for grand purposes, she’d broken through her vast, unexplored potential as a witch. 

With a few careful breaths, she managed to ease to the door and pushed outside. Fresh air coated her face, the smell of rich overturned earth and florals a welcome bouquet for the senses. Aunt Tracy made a choked sound of grief and joy at the sight of her, leaping to her feet to round the table and catch Aziraphale’s elbow. “My _darling girl._ We thought you might never wake up.” 

Aziraphale put a steading hand on Agnes’ shoulder, who sat frozen in her chair. Her dark hair cascaded loose and free down her back, but she had the same relief echoing in her eyes, the same lingering grief as she covered Aziraphale’s hand with her own as if Aziraphale was a ghost herself. 

“Where’s Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, and tried to clear the rust in her voice. She needn’t have asked. In the distance, on her knees in the garden and screaming at a row of turnips, sat the red-haired terror. Aziraphale’s heart ached again with love. 

“We forced her to leave your side and transform out of her snake form,” Tracy explained, holding Aziraphale tight.. “If she stayed a serpent any longer I feared she might forget how to transform! She fought us, but I told her that once she gave you an ounce of space, you’d come looking for her. I wasn’t wrong.”

“You scared us silly,” Agnes said and took a deep breath. “Your heart kept stopping. We nearly took you to a hospital, but Crowley wouldn’t let anyone near you. Nearly bit me.”

Aziraphale looked down at the bruises wrapping around her skin, yellowed in the daylight. “I think I died,” she whispered.

“I think you did too, but the important thing is that you came back.” Tracy laid a kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. “And now that she’s no longer wrapped around you, she’s terrorizing the garden. The carrots have never looked more traumatized.”

“She’s quite the huge serpent,” Agnes mused. “Just as you’re quite the powerful witch.”

“That’s an understatement,” Tracy said. 

“But we did it,” Aziraphale said. “We banished Gemma’s memories for good. We broke the curse. I can...I can say I love her.”

“Indeed. More importantly, I’m making you a grimoire,” Agnes said, holding her hands out as if Aziraphale would protest. “Vellum. Leather embossed cover. Beeswax coated stitching. _The Curse-Breaker Grimoire of Aziraphale Fell, Witch._ Title pending. What we went through must be your first entry, for others to know how to help others, such as Crowley.”

“Thank you, Agnes,” Aziraphale said softly and felt the earth roll beneath her feet. She clutched at Tracy. “I feel a little disoriented.”

“Give yourself time to settle in your body. It can’t be easy, being uprooted so violently like that.”

“I will, but after.” Aziraphale eased down the steps of the large wraparound porch, shuffling towards Crowley, whose back was turned to Aziraphale. Her gardening-gloved hand pointed viciously at a trembling head of lettuce. 

“You better behave,” Crowley snarled and stood. “If you’re not the tastiest morsel, I’ll have to replant you and then you’ll be sorry. Maybe, I’ll compost you and let the bugs have their way with you. You don’t want to know what I did to the radishes. _You don’t want to know.”_

Aziraphale felt as if she could burst with happiness. “Crowley, darling, don’t scare them too badly.”

Crowley whipped around, the bun on top of her head trailing loose flyaways against her sun-pinkened neck. Mud slicked the knees of her canvas overalls, light tan freckles scattering over her exposed shoulders. Aziraphale had never seen anything so beautiful, this image of home, and she suddenly wished to fall into Crowley’s arms.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, and then suddenly Aziraphale had her wish: Crowley yanking her into a tight embrace. Aziraphale took a deep breath against Crowley’s neck, heavy with the scents of dry reptilian scales, the smoky smell of a beloved witch, the flowered perfume of lavender and basil. “I thought I’d lost you,” Crowley whispered, her shoulders shaking as she tried to hold back a sob. “I thought you left me for good.”

“Never,” Aziraphale said fiercely, pulling back to cup Crowley’s chin in her hands, to kiss that teeth-worried anxious mouth. She tasted like fresh water and the mint from her toothpaste. Aunt Tracy’s voice drifted down with a pleased “Most excellent.” The pounding in Aziraphale’s head increased, mixed with the heavy rush of love, and she swayed to the side, her knees wobbling like a fawn. 

“Just a tad weakened,” she explained to the sudden strike of concern lancing across Crowley’s face. “Help me sit down?” 

Crowley took her arm, led her to one of the wide beach chairs perched under a copse of blooming trees. Sparkles of blinding light reflected off the roaring ocean beyond. Aziraphale urged her down and Crowley slipped next to her and settled, taking her hand. 

“You broke the curse,” she whispered, studying Aziraphale as if she were something treasured, and yet so, so fragile. “You saved me, again.” 

“Of course I did,” Aziraphale said. “I love you.”

A flash of fear ignited deep inside Crowley’s eyes. But nothing happened. The birds chirped. The ocean crashed. The fluffy white clouds inched across the blue expanse of sky. 

“I love you, too,” Crowley said, and the sudden wonder crossing her face made Aziraphale want to kiss her all over again. “I love you, Aziraphale. I love you the most. I love you more than anyone has loved anything in this whole world.”

Aziraphale felt like her smile couldn’t get any wider. She pulled Crowley down to taste her wondrous mouth, a kiss deep and long and open that had Crowley pushing to lay beside her in the chair, legs coiling around her, bodies one line of touch. Crowley sighed with relief and happiness, nuzzled into Aziraphale’s neck. Her long delicate hands traced the rope-like bruises up and down Aziraphale’s arms. “I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” she said. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I felt as if I were holding you together and if I eased back, even a little, you’d be gone forever.” 

“I think I saw God,” Aziraphale said softly. “Or perhaps, Hecate. It was all white light and black night and bells and such glorious music, Crowley. I wish I could remember it to write it down.”

“Maybe this will be inspiration for a new opera.”

“Would that upset you?” Aziraphale traced the familiar sharp lines of Crowley’s jaw, dug her fingers into her scalp and Crowley seemed to purr, arching for more.

“Course not. How could I be upset if you not only broke a bloodline curse, but also wrote me a song about it?”

Aziraphale hummed the first few lines of whatever malformed tune that bounced inside her brain, a shameful comparison to capture the essence of what she wanted it to, but Crowley shivered in her arms, goosebumps rising over her bare arms. Crowley suddenly pressed her ear to Aziraphale’s chest, as if holding a shell to her ear and Aziraphale’s heart were the ocean. “Tell me how you feel, angel. Really.” 

“Like I’m in the wrong skin, but I’ll settle.” Aziraphale tilted Crowley’s face up, ran a thumb over Crowley’s mouth. “It’s better now, with you.” 

Crowley nudged her face back into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and breathed deep. Aziraphale pulled her closer, felt the sudden wetness of relieved tears gracing her skin. She kissed those red curls and whispered her love in every way she could until Crowley trembled, overwhelmed. The music continued to blossom inside her and she hummed a couple of new bars. This felt like something…supreme and sublime. Unprecedented.

“How are you like this?” Crowley whispered, awed. “How can you create something that sounds so beautiful?”

“With ease. It’s the sound of you and me,” Aziraphale said softly, finally full. “It's the song of us.”

I turned around  
And the water was closing all around  
Like a glove  
Like the love that had finally, finally found me  
Then I knew  
In the crystalline knowledge of you  
Drove me through the mountains  
Through the crystal-like clear water fountain  
Drove me like a magnet  
To the sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you all for going on this wondrous journey with me. Your comments, kudos, and support have blown me away. I’m not good at responding to comments and I wish I was better, but please know that they were read and re-read and re-read again, especially in moments when my brain said, “No one is ever going to like this, let alone read it,” and then I could present evidence to myself in the courtroom of my mind of the contrary like a good (and dramatic) lawyer would, declaring, “No look see LOOK YOUR HONOR people actually do like this SEE WHAT THEY SAID!!”
> 
> Endless thank yous to my betas insertnerdyjokehere and tumblurkin for input and comments and hysterical suggestions and quotes from the movie. I know that I did message you both out of the blue and said, “SOOO kinda wrote like 20k of a Practical Magic AU, wanna beta it, here’s the document, I love you okaythanksbye!” And then I flailed and ran away, only to listen to Stevie Nicks on repeat.
> 
> But, despite all this, there are some things I know for certain: always throw spilt salt over your left shoulder, keep rosemary by your garden gate, plant lavender for luck, and fall in love (whether it be a person, a passion, or a lovestruck angel-demon duo) whenever you can.


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